


New Tricks

by genteelrebel



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Drama, First Time, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Methos ducks into a Seacouver SPCA in order to avoid the latest Immortal nutcase, he ends up adopting a homeless dog who reminds him a little too strongly of his past.  Will Duncan be able to help him out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Новые трюки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530244) by [Lileo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lileo/pseuds/Lileo)



> Warning! Warning! This story contains obsequious dog sentimentality! Militant cat-only people and dog haters are strictly warned to stay away! :) Other warnings include m/m sex, animal abuse, and some violence, including a Challenge and Methos's rather vivid memories of WWI.
> 
> Also: this story is a mild AU, since it assumes Methos moved to Seacouver after Alexa’s death and took up a much more friendly relationship with MacLeod than we see in the series. The Horsemen haven’t been seen or thought of as yet (and if they ever do show up, I’m guessing the boys will deal with them in a very different way. :)
> 
> This story has been translated into Russian by the very talented Lileo! I am so honored! Click on the "other works inspired by this one" link or head on over to http://archiveofourown.org/works/2530244 to check it out!

The Hunter spotted Methos in a ramshackle, tumbledown part of Old Seacouver, full of broken sidewalks and shops that had seen much better days. Methos had just stepped out of a very disreputable used bookstore when he first felt the Buzz. He hunched his shoulders and slunk into the busy street, a pointed Russian curse slipping out under his breath. _Der'mo!_

He’d been having such a *nice* couple of weeks, too. His new job as a French teacher at Seacouver Community College was going very well. Mac had actually asked him to house sit while he went antique hunting in the East, and the loft was rapidly becoming a very comfortable second home. Best of all, Methos was now on spring break, and free to indulge several vices he'd been too busy for thus far: namely, books and beer. The disreputable bookshop had yielded a first edition of the pulp classic, “Amazon Women on The Moon!”; Joe had ordered a case of Methos's favorite local microbrew for the bar, and Methos had plans to put a serious dent in both later that night. Facing a Challenge now could really put a damper on his lucky streak. _Chyort voz'mi!_

At first, Methos thought he could simply lose the other Immortal in the crowd. He was in full “Adam Pierson” mode that day, and very little about him stood out. Not even his sword-cloaking black coat could give him away--it was a typical rainy Seacouver day, and just about everyone on the street was similarly attired. (Methos would never admit it to Mac, but sometimes rainy climates did have their uses.) Unfortunately, the Hunter was experienced, able to trace his Buzz down to the source. Their eyes met briefly across the gloomy street, and the Hunter gave him a glare that left Methos in no doubt of his intentions. Methos swore some more, this time in Aramaic, and started looking for a convenient doorway—

Ah. There it was, less then ten steps away, windows spilling welcoming yellow light onto the gloomy street. Light meant people; the Hunter wouldn’t dare follow him inside. Methos ducked through the door.

A minute later he was regretting his decision. He hadn’t bothered reading the sign over the door, but the scent that hit him as the door swung shut behind him was unmistakable. A horrible mixture of fear, pet dander, and obscene amounts of disinfectant assaulted his nostrils, while a bunch of shiny posters advertising National Spay and Neuter Month assaulted his eyes. Damn. His “refuge” was the local branch of the SPCA.

Methos hated humane societies. They were depressing, and Methos did not risk depression lightly. He had discovered more than two millennia ago that the worst danger to older Immortals was their own mental health, and so from that day on he’d done everything he could to keep his own in top-tip shape. Visiting animal shelters was not a part of the plan. The SPCA’s very existence reminded Methos inexorably of humanity’s inherent cruelty, something he’d had more than enough experience with already, thank you. Even worse was the way the fear scent and the lines of cages triggered memories of the lifetimes he’d spent in similar captivity, horrid times when his life had been reckoned of even less value than these abandoned pets. He turned to leave…

…but one look back through the door stopped him. The Hunter had taken up a position across the street, glowering from the shelter of a thrift shop canopy. There was no help for it. Methos forced himself to smile and approached the young woman sitting at the desk.

She, at least, seemed very glad to see him, giving him a smile that shone with all the beauty a twenty-year-old kid could ask for. Methos supposed he was the first human being she’d seen all day. The girl waited patiently for him to shake the water off his coat, then grinned appreciatively as he ran his hand through his soaking hair, little bits of water dropping from his fingers onto the industrial tile floor. “Hello there!” she said brightly. “What can I do for you today?”

“Uh—“ Methos scanned the desk in front of her. It held an aged IBM computer and several piles of brochures, but no telephone. Good. There had to be one somewhere. Finding it would be a good excuse for getting into the back rooms. Maybe Methos would be lucky, and there would be a side door he could slip through. He put on his most charming smile. “Actually, I was wondering if I could use your phone. I’ve had a little car trouble.”

“And your cell phone’s dead?”

“My cell phone?” 

“In your coat pocket. I can see the antenna sticking out.” The girl pointed. “Don’t tell me you forgot you had it!” Methos clapped his hand over his chest, a sudden blush coloring his cheeks. The girl’s eyes danced. “Okay, I get it,” she said, her cheeks dimpling prettily. “Don’t be shy. I understand.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“Yes, I do. It’s all right, really it is. Lots of guys are self-conscious about wanting to adopt an animal.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “So what kind of pet are you interested in? Or maybe I should ask…what kind of pet is your wife interested in?”

Methos relaxed. The humane society’s aura was getting to him, but flirting was very familiar ground. He could deal with this. “I’m not married.”

The girl shrugged. “Your girlfriend, then.”

“No. No girlfriend either.” He smiled charmingly, figuring it was best to end her hopes now. “But my boyfriend might have something to say…”

Instinctively, Methos hunched his shoulders, bracing himself for the punch Mac would have landed on him if the Highlander had been there. Once or twice in the past he’d used a purely nonexistent…at least, nonexistent outside of his fantasy life…relationship with Duncan to politely deflect feminine interest. The Highlander had never been amused. Methos had been using the excuse more and more often now that Duncan was overseas; Seacouver was becoming a very liberal town, and it just seemed the easiest way to turn down prospective dates. After all, Duncan *was* the reason Methos wasn’t interested in company, even if the Highlander himself didn’t know it. *Ah, Mac,* he sighed internally. *So noble, so brave, so eternally clueless. And so unattainable, even if you weren’t. Maybe in another hundred years…* 

But this time he needn’t have bothered. “That’s wonderful!” the girl said enthusiastically, and too late Methos noticed the tiny rainbow triangle earrings playing hide-and-seek in her dirty blond hair. “Pets really make a home. My girlfriend and I just adopted our forth.”

He allowed a look of slight confusion to cross his face. “Fourth?”

“Cat,” she clarified, smiling. “I keep hoping to add a dog to the mix, but Kathy’s a diehard cat person, so what am I going to do? It’s a good thing I’m not allergic. Though of course, if I was, I wouldn’t be working here.” Her eyes twinkled. “So, what kind of animal were you two gentleman considering?”

Methos shot another surreptitious glance out the window. The Hunter hadn’t moved. Well, it was clear that he needed to kill some time, and it wasn’t as if he was taking the girl’s attention away from more serious customers. Methos sighed internally. Then he put on his best happy face and proceeded to spin a tale about getting a puppy for Duncan as a surprise. 

The bright young lady asked lots of questions. Methos found himself slipping deeper and deeper into the fantasy as he answered them, imagining what it really would be like to embark on pet ownership with the handsome Scot. “Breed?” Methos thought Duncan would like something from the sporting group, but it had to be small enough to be comfortable in the loft. “Activity level?” No problem there. The dog would get plenty of exercise. Judging by the way Duncan kept harassing Methos to join his morning run, the Highlander would love to have something to accompany him. Something that didn’t grumble about getting out of bed so early, as Methos habitually did. “Child friendly?” Methos suppressed a snort, then shook his head politely. No, dealing with rugrats was likely to be the least of the imaginary mutt’s problems. (Unless you counted Richie.)

The young lady grew very sober. “Are you really aware of what a big commitment having a pet is? Do you think you can handle the responsibility?” Methos pictured Duncan bursting into laughter at that one, then solemnly agreed that he was. “Well,” said the girl. “I’m afraid we don’t have any puppies right now, Mr. Pierson. You’ll have to wait until later in the spring for that. But we do have a few grown-up dogs from the larger breeds, if you’d like to take a look.”

Hunter Boy glowered at Methos through the rain, arms crossed over his chest. Methos agreed that he would like to have a look at the older dogs, still thinking about that possible side door out. The girl took a hold of his arm and led him through a hall to the cages. 

Ug. The frightened-animal scent was even stronger here, as was the chemical disinfectant. Methos felt the smell settling into his hair and clothes. He’d have to take a shower as soon as he got home. Worse than the scent, though, were the bright blaring lights, the squelch of the industrial tile floor under his damp shoes, and the pair after pair of liquid eyes that turned his way. No, Methos was *not* going to anthropomorphize. That was not hope he saw looking up at him through the bars, nothing of the kind. Methos pulled his collar closer around his throat. It was chilly in here.

The girl kept up a steady chatter as they passed cage after cage, oblivious to the bleak surroundings. Each metal door had a piece of cheap copy paper stuck up above it, giving the animal’s name and age in colorful magic marker. The ridiculously unimaginative pet names: “Clifford! Rufus! Sparkle! Blackie!” all scrawled in bright over-large printing and punctuated with the obligatory exclamation points, would have made Methos laugh if it wasn’t for the pathos all around. There was a steady clamor of yaps and barks as he passed. 

The young lady kept talking, telling Methos a little about each animal they passed. The beagle on the left had been found on an elementary school campus where the children had been secretly feeding it for weeks. (“Great family dog!” said the girl.) The scraggly black poodle had been hit by a car—the anonymous man who’d brought her in had paid for the dog’s veterinary care, but refused to adopt. (“She’ll need some extra attention, but it will be well worth it.”) Sad story after sad story roared by Methos’s ears. He found himself tuning the girl out, concentrating instead on just walking down the hall. Soon they’d have passed every cage, and he’d be able to make his excuses and go.

But the last cage did not hold a wet nose pressed to the bars. Nor was there a pair of searching eyes or a tragically wagging tail. Methos stopped and looked into the inner recesses of the kennel, seeing a heap of black fur sleeping in the back. The black heap was embellished by a white blaze, four large feet and a white tipped tail. And a white nose with a scattering of dark black spots, the sight of which took him back in time...

 

**_Scotland, 1918_ **

It was the touch of the nose that finally brought Methos back to life.

He’d been breathing for a while, of course. It was just that there didn’t seem any reason to open his eyes. He’d already starved to death some three or four times, and didn’t see any reason to move. The dying was just an inconvenient interruption of the pain, and the pain had become a welcome friend. If Methos concentrated on it very hard, the pain was bad enough to stop his thoughts, and that was all he wanted anymore, from life or death. Just to not to have to think any more…

But the cool touch on his face was insistent, as was the low whine. If the nose had belonged to some wild creature bent on eating him, Methos would not have moved. He would have welcomed more pain, he really would. But the wetness turned into warmth as the creature nuzzled his cheek with its fur, and the new touch felt suspiciously like pleasure, something Methos could not abide. Groaning, he flexed his fingers, finding the hunting knife he’d taken into the hills with him, the one he’d held in his hand as he died. He would stir just enough to kill this menace, then go back to dying in peace. He jerked his hand up, opening his eyes…

And found that the creature took no notice of the still-sharp blade. Instead, it daintily stepped over his chest, easily avoiding his arcing arm. Methos’s long-motionless wrist cramped, sending the knife clattering to the ground. The creature looked at him, and Methos didn’t have to be the same species to understand its emotion. The beast’s eyes held pity, plain and simple. It actually shook its head, spotted muzzle swinging. Then it went back to licking Methos's face.

Methos groaned, and swore. He could tell what the creature was, now. It was a dog, the kind highly prized in these parts for their ability to herd sheep. Amazing how man had gone from killing wolves at every opportunity to permitting their cubs at the fire to trusting them enough to stand guard over their livestock and children. In Methos’s opinion, it just showed humanity’s incredible gullibility. Someday it was going to dawn on this curious species that they really didn't need to wait for the scraps held out by their human masters, and what would humanity do then? Forget about biting the hand that fed you. A single nip at the jugular was so much more efficient... Methos bared his own teeth and growled a feral growl he hadn't used since the Bronze Age, hoping the furry menace would take the hint and leave him alone. That growl had been once been enough to stop even Caspian, in its day.

But once again, the dog ignored him. It did stop licking Methos's face--just in time to keep Methos from drowning in canine saliva--but it started working on his cold cramped hand instead. Sharp, burning pain flowed through Methos's fingers as the gentle lapping re-started his circulation. Funny. Just a few heartbeats before he would have welcomed the new hurt, but now it was unbearable. He stifled a scream and sat up, tearing his hand away from the furry beast.

The dog dropped to a sit in front of him, its eyes never wavering from Methos's face. 

And Methos knew, for better or for worse, that he wasn't going to lie back down. 

***

Back in the shelter, Methos stared, watching the sleeping animal’s chest rise and fall. He hadn’t seen a spotted nose on a border collie in a very long time. Of course, he hadn’t seen a border collie at all in almost as long, not since the last time he’d been in Scotland. Thank god, not too many people knew about the breed in the US as yet, and most who did were smart enough not to try keeping them as house pets. “Oh, you’re looking at Freckles,” the shelter girl said, stopping in mid-sentence. She came to look over his shoulder. “Are you familiar with border collies, Mr. Pierson?”

“I’ve spent some time in the border country, yes,” Methos said. The young woman looked at him, perplexed. “Scotland. Near the border with England. Where the border collie originated,” he elucidated. “It was a very long time ago, though.”

“Then you’ll know that a border collie is a working dog,” the girl said severely. Methos watched, amazed, as she slipped from Informative Tour Guide back into her roll as Canine Kind’s Noble Protector, bravely shielding her charges from ignorant humanity. It was very strange, seeing that serious school-teacher air on one so young. “Border collies were never meant to be pets. If you don’t give them a job to do, they can get very destructive. They really aren’t suited for city life, Mr. Pierson.” She looked meditatively into the cage. “Of course, Freckles is a very old dog, and we don’t know for sure that he is purebred. He might have some Dalmatian in him…look at the spots on his nose…”

“No. The spots can be a purebred border collie trait. They make it easier to tell one dog from another when they’re working in teams,” Methos said, and cursed himself. The girl was now looking at him very seriously indeed, clearing reappraising him as a potential Freckles owner. Damn. Methos was going to have a really hard time leaving now. He sought for an excuse, something that would make it possible to say no…oh, wait. Hadn’t he just said that he and his “partner” wanted a puppy? “Just how old is he?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve?” Methos stared at her, not sure he’d heard right. Even today, with all that modern veterinary medicine could offer, thirteen or fourteen was reckoned a very good life span for this breed. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “It’s as close as we can get. That’s what the vet said when he examined him.” 

“Could the vet be wrong?”

“Maybe. But not by much.” The girl sighed. “It really is too bad, isn’t it. Most people don’t want to take on a dog that old, and placing a border collie in the middle of downtown Seacouver is next to impossible anyway. They just have too many behavior problems.” She squared her shoulders, looking at Methos challengingly. “Mr. Pierson, I’m not going to lie to you. Freckles here is never going to win any beauty contests, and he won’t be the easiest dog to own. He’s badly arthritic, has lots of health problems, and has all the typical border collie bad manners on top of that. He’s going to need a great deal of discipline and care." She took a deep breath. "But he’s a great dog, very spirited and smart, and he badly needs a home. I really think you should think about adopting him.”

The die was cast. Methos shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Border collies aren’t cut out for city life,” he said, reminding her of her earlier words.

“No. That’s true. But since you and your partner are very active, and won’t be exposing him to small children, I think we can make an exception." She raised her eyebrows. "Especially since you’ve lived with the breed before?” 

The question hung in the air for a moment. Methos couldn’t quite bring himself to answer yes, but he couldn’t lie and deny it either. “I…I really should talk to Mac,” he said weakly, then shook his head at himself. Damn it all, this had gone way beyond an entertaining fantasy, and he knew it. The girl said nothing, aware that the moment of decision had come, and that it was time for her to be silent. From deep inside his own emotional turmoil, Methos found a spot of sincere admiration. That silence was the mark of a true saleswoman; the girl was better at her job than most people twice her age. The old dog stirred…

…and cracked open one eye, deep chocolate brown, with a wisdom in it almost as ageless as Methos’s own. The dog looked him over. For a moment Methos thought he saw a hint of Mac in there, the same look of appraisal, the same good-humored disdain. *Bloody Scots. They’re all alike.* Then the light in the dog’s eyes faded, and he put his head back to the cold concrete floor with a resigned little sigh. Methos found his hands shaking. His next words came straight from his heart, with absolutely no intervention from his brain. “What kind of paperwork do I have to sign?”

The girl blinked. She hadn’t really thought he’d come through. “You’ll take him, Mr. Pierson?” 

Methos nodded. “Yes.” *Maybe us old dogs belong together.* He looked into the cage, then back at the girl. “I’ll take him.”

The young woman’s smile was as radiant as an angel’s. “You’ve made the right choice,” she said with certainty. And took him back to fill out the paperwork.

***

Getting home was…interesting.

Allie, the young lady who worked at the SPCA, had outfitted the elderly border collie with a pair of well-worn pet bowls and a bright pink collar and leash. Methos had accepted the leash, knowing that it was too late in the evening for him to buy anything better, but internally the color made him wince. Of all the indignities that had been visited on the dog in the shelter, having to walk out of the SPCA with a Barbie Doll pink leash seemed the worst. Even the ridiculous name "Freckles" couldn’t hold a candle to that. By the time they’d filled out all the adoption papers, it was well after 7 o’clock, and time for the shelter to close. "I hope you’ll be very happy,” Allie said warmly at the door. “You’re getting a good one.”

The time it had taken to complete the adoption had been put to good use. Hunter Boy had gotten bored and moved on. Methos stepped out of the doorway cautiously, leash in hand, dog bowls precariously balanced on his hip—no, he felt no Buzz, thank all the gods man had ever seen fit to worship and the rainy Seacouver weather. No doubt the damp had finally chased the Hunter off. “Thanks. I think I am,” Methos said, and frowned as he watched his charge limp out onto the sidewalk. “Listen. Do you have a recommendation for a good veterinarian?”

“I stapled a couple of business cards to your adoption certificate,” Allie said, nodding at the manila envelope he carried along with the bowls. She handed him a small sample bag of dog food, which he balanced with all his other burdens. “And I put in some information sheets on feeding, grooming, exercise and pet massage. Just in case.” She smiled at him with all the warm condescension of a grandmother of ten talking to a first-time mom. Methos felt ridiculously inadequate. “It’s all right,” she reassured. “The shelter’s phone number is on every page of the paperwork. Please feel free to call if you have any questions.”

“Thanks. I will.” He looked down at the animal, who stared back with curiously dead eyes. “Come on, dog. Let’s go home.”

The limping dog and the awkward human hobbled away down the street, moving at about a third the pace Methos normally walked at. Methos didn’t mind. There was an odd kind of peace to be found in walking with a dog at night. He surprised himself by enjoying the rhythm of the gentle pace, and the comfort to be found in the warm furry presence at his knee. The only thing that disturbed him was his new companion’s total lack of enthusiasm. Methos had rather expected frisking and capers, joy at the near escape from death. Instead, the dog just plodded along with his head down, ignoring all of the passing lamp posts and shrubs. *Maybe he just doesn’t believe it’s real yet,* Methos reflected. *I can certainly understand that.*

The streets had cleared out with the twilight, bringing the only tranquility the city ever knew. Methos relished the quiet, turning toward the dojo with a lighter heart than he’d had in weeks. He didn’t think twice about his destination. Probably Duncan would be furious when he discovered Methos had brought an animal into his precious loft, but it had been Methos’s home for several weeks now while he house-sat and kept an eye on the dojo below. He’d face the Highlander’s wrath when he had to. For now Methos’s mind was occupied with much more immediate concerns: what kind of food the dog would need, how to arrange a makeshift pet bed on the floor, how soon he’d be able to get to the pet store to replace that abominable pink leash. It was ridiculous, really. If someone had told him yesterday that today he’d be obsessing about the pros and cons of dry dog food versus canned, he would have laughed out loud. But that was life for you. Stranger things had certainly happened in his. 

They shuffled through the streets. Rain turned the asphalt dark and shiny, streetlights caught on the white parts of the border collie’s spotted nose. Methos turned them into the city park where Mac habitually ran, winding them through the shrubs and trees. For the first time the dog hesitated, stubbornly digging in his feet. “What’s the matter, boy?” Methos asked. “Have we walked too far?” Concerned, he bent over, feeling the dog’s bad leg with physician’s hands—old habits died hard, even if he usually only practiced on human patients. He had placed his other dog-related burdens on the ground and was gently bending and straightening the stiff knee when he felt the Buzz, and heard the unmistakable sound of metal rasping. A sword was being drawn…

Slowly, Methos straightened. The dog growled, a low menacing sound. “You know, this is a really bad time for this,” Methos said conversationally, back still to his assailant while he mentally ran through his list of accessible weapons. Using the Ivanhoe would be awkward, to say the least, with a dog in tow. Maybe he could get in a quick stab to the heart with his throwing knife. “It’s Thursday night. ‘Survivor’ will be starting soon. You wouldn’t want to miss that, now would you?”

“I really, really hate that show.” The voice came as a snarl from the dark.

Methos sighed. “You have good taste in that, at least.” He turned, getting his first good look at his assailant. The other Immortal looked like a teenager, blonde, with one of the stupid little wispy goatees all the children seemed to be wearing these days. But that was an illusion only. His Quickening was strong and bright, clearly well-tempered by time, and the sword he carried was a sparkling one-hander, deadly and efficient. Drat. “I have no quarrel with you,” Methos said, allowing just a hint of menace to come into his voice. “Walk now and we’ll both live to fight another day.”

“Not a chance.” The Hunter grinned. “I spent hours in the rain tracking you down. I think I deserve your Quickening to warm my blood.”

*My Quickening would do much more than just warm your blood, kid. You’d be lucky if the whole damn park didn’t go up in flames.* Methos thought he heard a car engine rumbling in the distance; it was the only sound, other than wind, to disturb the tomb-like silence of the park. At least until the dog started to whimper, tiny cries shattering the night. “All right,” Methos said, holding out his free hand placatingly as he cautiously shifted his stance. “Just let me get my dog to a safe place, first.” 

“Hiding behind a mutt? You must be young.”

Methos shook his head. “Just being practical. My dog here has a terrible fear of lightning storms." He shrugged. "I don’t want him to run away while I’m absorbing your Quickening.”

“He doesn’t look like he could run at all,” the stranger said scornfully. “Couldn't you have gotten one with more than three legs?" Methos stayed silent. The other Immortal spread his arms magnanimously. "But I’m a merciful man. Tie him up to that bench. If I’m feeling charitable, I’ll take him back to the SPCA after I kill you.” He grinned ferally. “If not, I’ll see just how far he can get on *two* legs before I kill him. We’ll have to see.”

“You are all generosity,” Methos muttered. “Come along, dog.” He tugged on the sissy pink leash. The border collie refused to move. "Damn you, this is *not* the time for a dominance dispute,” Methos grumbled, then smiled apologetically at the Hunter. “Ummm, I’m terribly sorry about this, but the dog seems to have other ideas. Animals. You know how it is. Would you mind waiting just another minute?” 

"Hurry up!"

"I'm doing my best." Grumbling in Egyptian, now, Methos bent down, determined to carry the dog bodily to the bench. The elderly border collie had hunched into a tiny ball, making it very difficult for Methos to get a grip on him. Methos had just succeeded in hefting the animal a few hard-earned inches off the ground when the dog twisted in his grasp, landing with an ungainly thud. He flopped awkwardly for a moment, then gathered his three good legs underneath him and sprung. 

At the Hunter. 

It would be hard to say who was the most surprised. Methos's jaw dropped as the border collie, bad leg and all, leapt for Goatee Boy's feet, snapping and biting at his calves. Fabric tore. Methos saw something dark and liquid suddenly spurt out of the challenger’s pale flesh. The Hunter swore loudly and swung his sword downward… 

Methos didn’t stop to think. Later he would marvel at his reactions, but at the time they just seemed to happen. Instead of reaching for his sword, Methos darted forward. Narrowly avoiding the other Immortal's flashing blade, he scooped the dog off the ground and took off running, racing for the entrance of the park. After a stunned moment, heavy boot-clad steps clattered behind them.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!” The old dog was snarling and thrashing against Methos’s chest, clearly trying to get back into the fight. Methos made vague soothing sounds while trying very hard not to drop him. The animal seemed to weigh at least twenty pounds more than he had back at the shelter, and his rain-slicked fur didn’t make carrying him any easier. Methos willed extra strength into his legs as he pounded down the road, pushing hard with his thighs for an extra burst of speed. It sounded like their pursuer was dropping behind, but he couldn’t be sure. Methos skidded out into the middle of the street.

Luck was with him. Twenty feet ahead was the most welcome sight in the world: a genuine yellow cab, its lights friendly and bright. Methos hollered at it. The dog barked sharply into his ear, almost collapsing his eardrums. Methos winced, but the cab slowed to a halt. He wrenched open the door to see a young woman with ridiculously large dangle earrings staring back at him. “Hey!" she shouted, watching in disbelief as he stuffed his sodden bundle in through the cab door. “If you think I’m taking *that* in my cab, you better think again!”

“He’s house broken,” Methos mumbled, shoving the dog with all his might. It growled and lashed out, teeth snapping mere millimeters from his wrist. The horrible scent of wet fur quickly permeated the cab. Methos groped for his wallet and yanked out all the bills in one smooth motion. He waved them at the incredulous cab driver, all too aware of the dark figure approaching at a run. “Look, I can’t explain,” he said. “But we really need to get out of here. Now.”

He took her open-mouthed stare as a sign of agreement and climbed inelegantly into the cab, fighting the canine at every turn. He slammed the door closed after him. The cabby shook her head, but pulled away just as the other Immortal reached the circle cast by her headlights, his face pale and angry in the rain. Methos slumped down in his seat, muscles weak with relief. The dog was trembling visibly now, curled into a tight little ball in the corner of the seat. Methos reached out to it, unable to do anything more than whisper a few soothing words. *Great way to start a relationship*, he thought ruefully. *I sure know how to make a first impression on you Scots, don't I? Offer my head to one, scare the other into a fit. Smooth, old man, smooth.*

The cab pulled up in front of the dojo. Methos handed the cabby the entire wad of bills he’d flashed her, some three hundred dollars altogether, then eased out of the back seat. “Come on, dog,” he said. “We’re home. At least for now.”

The wet, trembling animal didn’t move. The cabby gave him a pointed look, painted fingernails drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. Methos ignored her and bent in toward the shaking canine, lowering his voice so only the dog could hear. “Look, Old Dog,” he said. “I know we didn’t get off to the best start. And you probably don’t have much reason to trust any human being, let alone me. But I’ll swear you this. I will do the best I can by you.” He held out his hand. “Come inside with me.”

The dog stared at him, calculating, measuring. Methos held still, hand never wavering. After a very long moment, the beast uncurled from his ball and carefully stepped out of the cab onto the pavement. Methos heaved a huge sigh of relief and shut the cab door. The cab roared away down the street.

Old Dog hobbled to the dojo’s doorway, looked at Methos, and ever so gently wagged his tail.

***

In the darkness of the park, the lone Immortal watched the yellow cab drive off. He slammed his fist into a nearby tree. Damn! He couldn't believe that he'd been so neatly evaded by a mere boy. If it hadn't been for the chunk of tendon that stupid mutt had taken out of his leg…

The Immortal’s eyes narrowed. He had to admit, this round of the battle had gone to the child…but the fight was far from over. His wound was already healing, the ragged edges of skin closing together over his boot top. And what had aided the enemy tonight would prove to be his downfall later on. The Hunter sheathed his sword and made his way out of the deserted park, footsteps echoing menacingly away.

He would take some time to recover, to think, and to give this strange new enemy a chance to believe he had escaped him. And then he would visit the SPCA.

***

_**~ One week later ~** _

"You strike a difficult bargain, Mr. MacLeod," said the Japanese businessman, shaking his head softly. "Still, I think you will be happy with your purchase."

"I am. I know I always will be." 

Duncan MacLeod slid the papers he'd just signed across the businessman’s stunning mahogany desk, feeling a peaceful contentedness that he hadn't felt in ages. Helping out Midori Koto was certainly the highlight of this trip. The real estate purchase he'd just made would see to it that not only the old Koto family shrine, but also a great deal of land surrounding it, would never be threatened by development. He'd already had the papers drawn up leaving the land to Midori's descendants in trust. It felt good to be able to repay his old mentor even more fully than he had when he'd rescued Midori from Michael Kent. Duncan smiled charmingly at the man responsible. "Now to see if I can catch an early flight for home."

"You are eager to return?"

"Let's just say that I'm...anxious." Duncan still found it hard to believe that he'd actually left the dojo for more than two months with only Methos to house sit. He couldn’t remember much of what had happened the night he’d agreed to the arrangement, but he was sure of one thing: Methos must have gotten him very, very drunk. "I'm beginning to wonder if my home is still standing."

The businessman frowned ever so slightly. "I thought you said you had left your holdings in the hands of a trusted old friend, Mr. MacLeod."

"Old? Certainly. Trusted...well..." Duncan hesitated. The truth of the matter was that he *did* trust Methos, at a deep, almost unconscious level he hadn't bothered to examine too closely. But there had been a strange note in the old Immortal's voice whenever Duncan had called during the last week, and Methos had made way too many quick excuses for needing to get off the phone quickly. "I just have a feeling that I need to be there as soon as possible."

"Well, since we managed to conclude our business several days ahead of schedule, you should be able to catch a flight out yet tonight," answered the businessman, coming to his feet. He offered an elegant hand. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. MacLeod."

"Likewise, sir."

Fortune smiled. Duncan was indeed able to change his ticket for an earlier flight. He got on the plane and quickly went to sleep, happy in the knowledge that he'd wake up in Seacouver sometime around noon. Rain was sheeting heavily over the airfield when they landed, but Duncan didn't mind. The rainy weather was part of being home again. He got the T-bird out of the long-term airport parking, put the top up and drove to the dojo. Much to his relief, the building still appeared to be in one piece. Better yet, the strong Buzz Duncan could feel even from the sidewalk proved that the old Immortal inside was still in one piece, too.

It was good to be home.

Duncan dropped his bags on the dojo floor and hurried to the elevator, eager to see Methos, eager to make sure that his loft was in as good a condition as the rest of the place. When the grate lifted upstairs Duncan could see no sign of Methos, so he walked in, carefully scrutinizing the floor for bloodstains--or the tell-tale signs of refinishing. There were none. Amazing. Nor did it look like any of the windows or light fixtures had recently been replaced. Hmm, had the old place really survived more than eight weeks without any Quickening damage? Maybe Methos was right; maybe he really should go away more often. “Methos?” Duncan yelled. “Methos, I’m back.”

The only sounds that answered him were two very muffled words coming from behind the bathroom door. They sounded suspiciously like: “Oh, shit.”

Instantly on guard, Duncan felt every muscle stiffen. “Methos?” he ventured again. Then, softer: “Methos?” Hand on his sword, Duncan crept to the bathroom door. He placed an ear against it, and could hear nothing but breathing on the other side. Loud, heavy breathing. Almost panting. He knocked loudly on the doorway. “Methos?”

“Well, if it isn’t Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Methos shouted in a cheery voice. “What a pleasant surprise. I wasn't expecting you back until next week.”

"I know. I was able to come home early. I'm sorry I didn’t get a chance to call before I got on the plane." Duncan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The cheeriness sounded terribly phony, even for Methos. “Methos? What are you up to in there?” 

A pause. “What do people usually do in bathrooms, MacLeod?”

“Um...“ The Highlander hesitated. Then he heard a loud thump, much too loud to be explained by a mere dropped bar of soap, and some more swearing. He started hammering on the door. “Mee—thooos!”

Inside the bathroom, Methos winced. It was amazing how the Highlander could stretch out his name whenever he suspected Methos was up to something. The man could almost hit high C. Methos wiped back his sodden hair and looked appraisingly at the sopping mass of black and white fur panting up at him from the shower floor. Damn. He really should have planned this better. “Looks like we’ve been found out,” he said in an undertone. “Let me get you toweled off and then we’ll go meet Duncan.”

Unfortunately, it was not enough of an undertone to miss a pair of pricked Highland ears. “Methos?” The knocking on the door stopped abruptly. “Uh, Meth—Adam. That's right, Adam. I meant Adam," Duncan said sheepishly. "Um…do you have company in there?” 

Methos groaned. Oh, this was not working out at all well. Why couldn’t the Highlander have called before he left the airport? “Yes,” he said, in answer to Duncan's hanging question. “I do have company, Duncan. But it’s not what you think.” He looked down at Old Dog. “And you can keep using my real name. I’m not in any danger.”

He could almost feel Duncan's gaze through the doorway--naturally, the thought of him being in a shower with someone who knew his real name WOULD make Duncan curious--but Methos resolutely set about drying both Old Dog and himself. Five very strained minutes later, the door finally cracked open. "Now, be good," Methos muttered under his breath. "Remember, we want Uncle Duncan to *like* us."

Old Dog's nose was instantly against the crack in the door. Methos, who had become very adept at reading the border collie's mind during the last week, made a quick grab for his withers. He missed. With a surprising amount of speed the dog ran into the loft, shaking a fine spray of water all over a very startled Highland Warrior. Methos groaned. Old Dog paused, grabbed something from underneath the couch, and then fled to a far corner of the loft, disappearing from sight. "Methos," Duncan said slowly, one hand reaching up to touch his newly dampened face. "What was *that*?"

Methos stepped out of the bathroom carefully, blocking the view inside with his body. It wouldn't do for the Highlander to get a look at the chaos within before Methos had gotten a chance to explain. He closed the door firmly. "Tag.”.

"*Tag?*"

"Yes. Tag." Old Dog's resounding bark came from behind the bed. Methos rubbed his face, wishing that he could just disappear through the floor. "The canine version, anyway. Whenever Old Dog is displeased with me, he steals my favorite sweater and makes me chase him around until he feels like giving it back." Methos shrugged. "Tag. Unfortunately, for some reason I'm always It."

"Tag. The canine version." Duncan shifted his stance, placing his hands on his hips. "I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is that…thing…that just ran by me was a dog."

Methos bit back the first words that came to his mouth. He knew that Old Dog was still too thin, but he was getting stronger every day and his coat was a hundred times better than it had been, thanks to the hours Methos had spent with a grooming brush in his hand. Duncan's comment was very undeserved. Then again, Methos really didn’t want to start this conversation off with an argument. "That's right," he said brightly. "Duncan MacLeod, meet Old Dog. My new…pet." *New master and keeper would be more like it,* Methos added mentally. *But I better not say that out loud. There's no point in letting Mac know just how crazy I've gone for another couple of hours, at least.*

"Pet." Duncan took a good look around the loft, noting changes that hadn't been readily apparent when he first came in. All the furniture was still where it was supposed to be, the tapestry and paintings still in place, but it was not the same room he had left. Some of the more obviously fragile object de art were missing. There were several small bags of dog food leaning against the kitchen counter, and a line of pill bottles—pill bottles?—was neatly arranged on top. A black leather leash hung on the hook near the elevator. And books were scattered over every horizontal surface. This last wasn’t unusual at all when Methos was in residence, but today’s selections all had titles like “How To Be Your Dog’s Best Friend” and “The Complete Veterinary Encyclopedia.” MacLeod looked around again, not quite able to believe his eyes. The loft had clearly metamorphosed into the home of a dog owner. What the hell was going on? "Pet," he said again. 

*Oh, dear,* Methos thought. When MacLeod could not generate speech on his own, and instead had to rely on repeating Methos's former words, the conversation was not going well at all. "Yes, pet," Methos confirmed. "My pet dog." He squirmed; the Highlander was staring at him as if he, and not Old Dog, had just come running out of the bathroom and shaken dirty water all over him. "What's the matter, Duncan? Is there some law saying that I can't have a pet if I want one?"

"Methos, in all the time I've known you, you've never owned so much as a goldfish." Duncan looked resignedly at the footprints gleaming wetly on the floor, sighed, and settled down on the couch. He wore a very pained expression. "Okay. You might as well tell me who you lost the bet to."

"Bet?" Damn. Now Methos was doing it, too.

"Yeah." MacLeod smiled humorlessly. "It was one of your students, right? This…animal…is some kind of college mascot. You're keeping him as part of a spirit week prank." The Highlander pressed a hand to his forehead as if it ached. "Please tell me that you were *not* bathing it in my shower."

Again, Methos bit back an angry retort. He wanted to say that MacLeod had entertained many dogs in his shower before--several of the Highlander's last girlfriends came to mind. But he still had some hope of salvaging the situation. "Why not? It's the perfect set-up. Nice big shower, no tub rim to lean over, easily removable spray head. You'd think you had dog grooming in mind when you had it installed," Methos said, and when MacLeod merely glowered at him, he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Look, Mac…hard as it may seem to be for you to believe, I really have embarked on the wonderful world of pet ownership. No money changed hands at all, unless you count the adoption fees I paid to the Seacouver SPCA. I'm afraid Old Dog is here to stay."

"*You* went to an SPCA?" Mac asked incredulously. Methos nodded. He shoved his fingers still deeper into his pockets, not wanting Mac to see the fists his hands had instinctively formed. He was rapidly losing patience. "What on earth were you doing there?" Duncan asked.

"Looking for Elvis," Methos said bitingly. Oh yes, he was definitely out of patience. "What do you think I was doing? I already *told* you. I was adopting Old Dog." He left his post at the bathroom door, grabbed the pink adoption certificate off the kitchen counter, and shoved it under the Highlander's nose. 

Duncan read the small piece of paper, noting the little black and white caricatures of puppy dogs and kitty cats smiling up at him from the border. Methos's best "Adam Pierson" signature was signed with a flourish on the bottom, and the certificate was exactly one week old. "I don't believe it. You're serious."

"Of course I am." Methos said irritably. "What is it about me that makes people think I'm an unfit pet owner? First the girl at the shelter gave me the third degree, now it takes ten minutes to convince my best friend that I'm not pulling some kind of prank. Yes, MacLeod. I. Am. Serious."

Duncan's mouth dropped open. Methos shifted uneasily, wondering which concept was hardest for the Highlander to wrap his head around: the idea of Methos adopting a pet, or his pronouncement that he, Duncan MacLeod, was Methos’s best friend. *Damn. I knew I shouldn't have said that. At least not until I needed to engage in some serious emotional blackmail.* From behind the bed, there came the very obvious sounds of doggy growling and fabric tearing. Duncan raised his eyebrows. Methos pretended he hadn't heard. "All right," Duncan said carefully. "I believe that *you* think you're serious. But Methos, you clearly haven't thought the whole thing through." 

"Oh, I haven't, have I." Methos's voice dropped about an octave, a shift that normally signified great danger for anyone within sword reach. "Well, that's what friends are for, aren't they," Methos said silkily. "I'm sure that you're going to tell me just what I missed." 

"A dog is a lot of responsibility," Duncan began. Methos's jaw hardened, and Duncan raised his hands defensively, realizing too late that what he had just said could easily be taken as fighting words. "Okay. Bad start. But you can't deny that it's true. Methos, you *can't* own a dog. You move around too much. Why, the quarantine period in France alone…"

"Oh. That." To Duncan's great surprise, Methos actually smiled. "Don't worry. Seacouver's not such a bad place to live, and the college has already renewed my teaching contract. I think I can be comfortable here for the rest of Old Dog's natural life."

"But--" Duncan closed his mouth with a pop. Had he heard correctly? Was the World's Oldest Wanderer actually talking about settling down? This was way more serious than he'd thought. "Come sit down," he said, patting the couch beside him. Methos did, ambling slowly across the floor, and sat as far away from the Highlander as he could manage and still be on the same couch. "Now then," Duncan said earnestly. "Let's be reasonable about this, Methos. We both know that there are reasons why Immortals don’t keep pets.”

“Oh, yes?” Methos crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the couch's arm, every line of his body saying *this ought to be good.* “Enlighten me.”

Duncan swallowed. “Well, first there’s the fact that their lives are always over in the blink of an eye…”

“That didn’t stop me from loving Alexa,” Methos said bitingly. “Nor either of us from befriending Joe.”

The Highlander’s face turned bright crimson. “That’s different! Mortal humans can live for years.” 

“Weren’t you listening, MacLeod? I repeat: Alexa had roughly the same life expectancy as Old Dog when we first met. That did not stop me from loving her.” *Or from loving you, for that matter, you idiotic Scott,* Methos thought to himself. *The way you rush into challenges, it wouldn’t surprise me if Old Dog himself had the chance to lift a leg against your gravestone someday. Why, oh why, must I always fall for the brave ones? You’d think by now I would have learned…* 

“Alexa was a human being!”

“Yes? So?”

“So…” The Highland groped, and shifted to a different tack. “So, Alexa could have taken care of herself if something had happened to you. You know how we live, Methos. There’s always the chance that we won’t see tomorrow. What’s Old Dog going to do if you don’t come home from a Challenge one night?”

“Oh, this is just too rich.” Methos said caustically. “One minute you’re saying it’s a bad idea because I’ll outlive him, the next it's a bad idea because he'll outlive me? I think you flunked elementary logic class, MacLeod.”

“And you flunked ‘how-to-give-a-straight-answer-101',” Duncan answered heatedly. “Give it up, old man. You know it’s a valid question.”

“Believe it or not, I do have some sense of responsibility,” Methos said coldly. “I’ve already talked to Joe."

"Joe?" 

"Yes. Joe. Joe Dawson. Your Watcher. Ring a bell?" Duncan looked blank. Methos raised his eyes heavenward. "For god’s sake, Duncan, the man doesn't spend *all* his time following you. He's much too busy overseeing all the Watcher Operations in the Pacific Northwest for that. This time, he decided to give a couple of eager young field agents a chance to run after you to Japan, so we had plenty of time to talk. Joe is perfectly willing to give Old Dog a home if something unexpected happens to me."

"He is?"

"Yes. Turns out he had a lab mix when he was a kid. He'd love the company. I’ve already set up a small trust fund to keep Joe from being stuck with the vet bills.” Mac’s mouth made a little “o” of surprise. “So. Other than the fact that Old Dog could die, or I could, what other problems do you have?”

"Well…" Duncan had to admit it. Methos had clearly put a lot more thought into this than he'd anticipated. "Wait a minute. What was this about vet bills? I saw all the pill bottles on the counter."

Methos stifled a groan. He should have known MacLeod wouldn't let the pill bottles slip by. "Well, since you've already poked your big fat Highland nose into everything else, you might as well know this, too. Old Dog and I have been to the vet a lot this week. It’s really only to be expected: Old Dog is around twelve years old, and his medical problems are myriad. He's got very bad arthritis, is blind in one eye, and is probably quite deaf in the opposite ear. He has a torn cruciate ligament in his back leg which will need surgery as soon as he's strong enough to stand it--we're trying to get him up to a more normal weight first. And in addition, he has epilepsy, thyroid problems, and IBS…"

"IBS?" Duncan frowned. "What's that?"

Methos sighed. This was the part he'd been dreading the most. "Irritable Bowel Syndrome," he said. "Old Dog has to eat a special diet, but even so he's subject to chronic diarrhea. I think the first arthritis medication we tried was exacerbating the condition, so the vet and I changed it yesterday, but still…" 

Methos sneaked a look at Duncan. The Highlander's face had shaded from the pale white of shock to the deep red of fury. "Let me get this straight," Duncan said carefully, clearly trying very hard not to explode. "Not only do you adopt an animal without telling me, you bring it into my loft without my permission. An incontinent, flea-bitten…"

"He was not either flea-bitten! The shelter took care of that before I got him!" Methos yelled. Duncan's face started shading from red to purple. Methos got to his feet. "Fine. I brought him here because I was looking after your sorry place while you were gone, remember? And so far I've been too busy dodging rogue Immortals and running up ridiculous bills at the vet's to look for a new flat of my own. You know my studio is on the third floor. There's no way Old Dog can manage the stairs. I was hoping that you might ask us to stay until I could find us a place with an elevator, but since it's obvious we're not wanted..." 

He whistled loudly. Old Dog, sodden fur showing every pathetic rib, reappeared from around the corner of the bed. He was carrying Methos's favorite cream sweater in his mouth, which was very obviously the source of the tearing sound Duncan had heard earlier. To Duncan's great surprise, Methos said nothing about the sweater. He just gathered up his coat and walked to the elevator. Old Dog hobbled obediently at his heels, tail wagging invitingly. 

Duncan stared after them. It was his first real look at the dog, and his eyes opened wide. "Methos?"

"What?" The old Immortal paused in the act of yanking down the elevator grate long enough to shoot the Highlander a dirty look. Much to Methos’s surprise, Duncan no longer looked angry. Instead, he was staring at Old Dog with something akin to shock. "Mac, what's wrong?"

Duncan swallowed. "You didn't say he was a *border collie*." 

"Yeah? So?" Methos said impatiently. 

Duncan shot him A Look. "A border collie is a *Scottish* dog," he said. His tone implied that he was explaining something very simple to an idiot. 

Methos froze. "Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight," he said. "Are you saying we could have avoided this entire argument if I had just told you his breed?"

"A border collie isn't just any dog," MacLeod said, as if that fact should be obvious. "This is a noble beast." He dropped to his knees. "Come here, old fellow," he said, pointedly ignoring Methos's incredulous gaze. "Let's see if Methos has been taking proper care of you." He held out his hand.

Old Dog looked curiously from the kneeling Scot to Methos. His tail wagged softly in inquiry. "I should have known," Methos said under his breath. "Go ahead, Old Dog. Uncle Duncan won't bite. At least not so far as I know. Besides, you two probably have ancestors in common." 

Old Dog approached Duncan cautiously, slinking uneasily across the floor. Methos strongly suspected that Old Dog had a long history of abuse; thus far, Methos had been having a very hard time getting him to warm up to strangers. But Duncan held still, and eventually Old Dog closed the distance between them, lightly touching his nose to the Highlander's hand. He started wagging his tail in earnest when Duncan made soft clicking sounds with his tongue. "Oh lord, what's next?" Methos asked. "Will the two of you get together and start singing The Mist Covered Mountains?" 

"He knows his own," Duncan said archly, quietly slipping his free hand behind Old Dog's ears. Much to Methos's amazement, Old Dog permitted the caress. "Aye, you're a good lad, you are," Duncan murmured, then looked up at Methos indignantly. "You said he was in an animal shelter? How could anyone just abandon a fine beastie like this?"

"There's not much call for herding dogs in Seacouver, MacLeod. Most of us earn our livings doing things besides raising sheep these days." 

"Aye, 'tis true. And ‘tis a fierce shame, too." Duncan gave Old Dog a final scratch and got to his feet. He looked at the glowering clouds outside the loft windows and then faced Methos. "I can't let you take him out in this rain, Methos. He'll catch cold if he goes out before his fur dries. And besides, can't you see he's got a bad leg?" 

"I--" Methos closed his mouth. For once he was absolutely speechless.

"And your apartment is obviously out of the question," Duncan continued. "I've seen that stairway of yours. It's a wonder your landlord gets away with it. Three flights of bad lighting and uneven tread? It's amazing that you haven't fallen and broken your own neck before now. Old Dog will never manage. You two are just going to have to stay here until you can find something closer to the ground."

"I--" Methos said again. Old Dog had stood up along with the Highlander, and was standing with his bottom pressed against Duncan's knee. The two Scots both wore similar expressions of guilty hope. Methos surrendered. "We-ell", he said, pretending reluctance. "We really don't want to be any bother…"

"Methos." The word was a warning.

Methos let his grin broaden. "Fine. But *you* get to take him outside the next time he scratches at the elevator grate." Methos sauntered over to the couch and sprawled out upon it, the sweet feeling of victory in every muscle. Old Dog hobbled over to join him, resting his head on his knee.

Duncan MacLeod watched them, man and dog together. After a moment he threw back his head and laughed.

***

At bedtime that evening, Duncan left the bathroom to see a very unusual sight. He’d lent Methos several blankets and pillows to make the couch comfortable for the night, and both Methos and Old Dog were now sprawled out amongst them, with every appearance of comfort. Old Dog in particular seemed very happy, having flopped down directly on top of Methos’s chest. His nose was resting contentedly on the old Immortal’s shoulder. “Ahem,” Duncan said. “Aren’t pets traditionally supposed to sleep on the floor?”

Methos cracked one sleepy eye. “Absolutely,” he said. “Fortunately, Old Dog’s been kind enough to overlook that rule so far. My spine isn’t as young as it used to be.”

Duncan choked back a snicker. *Whipped. The man is absolutely puppy-whipped. Who ever would have thought it was possible?* “Isn’t he heavy? He’s right on top of you.”

“I know. There’s no point in moving him. He’ll just move back the second I fall asleep. I’ve gotten used to it.” 

“All right. As long as you don't wake me up reviving after he suffocates you, I suppose it’s no concern of mine. Good night, then.”

“Good night, MacLeod.”

Methos closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the gentle sounds of Duncan removing his robe and slippers, the slight creak of the mattress as the Highlander climbed into bed. No, he wasn’t listening to them at all. Old Dog made a soft wuffling sound of contentment, and Methos idly scratched one sprawling leg as he scrunched deeper under the dog’s warm weight. It was true. Methos *had* gotten used to having the dog next to him when he slept. But that had been in the great big bed, not this narrow couch where both he and Old Dog stuck a bony elbow or knee into each other’s soft parts whenever either so much as breathed, much less wanted to turn over. Oh, well. The discomfort was really a blessing in disguise. It definitely helped Methos keep his mind off of the semi-nude Highlander, lying only a few tantalizingly paces away. Methos settled his shoulders more comfortably into the pillow and drifted off to sleep.

He quickly found himself in the grip of a nightmare.

This, in itself, was hardly unusual. Methos’s sleep was disturbed by bad dreams more often than not, and he had long ago developed a good survival strategy in regards to them. When a nightmare came, his sleeping mind tended to split into two, so he ended up watching himself go through the nightmare instead of experiencing it directly. Sean Burns had once theorized that it was much like the dissociation mortal humans experienced when traumatized in a waking state; the sense of removal helped lessen the impact. Being able to do the same thing asleep was very rare, but then, so was still being sane after 5,000 years of life. Methos was grateful, and accepted whatever adaptations his subconscious came up with to keep him that way. His unique "double dreaming" had enabled him to keep sleeping through more bad years than he cared to remember, and usually allowed him to put aside the nightmare and wake up refreshed.

Usually. Sometimes it didn't work at all.

Tonight he watched himself wander through the Scottish border country with a feeling of unbearable sadness. The sky was black with rain and thunderheads. Bits of Quickening fire lanced the darkness here and there, making the wandering Methos jump and scream each time they touched his skin. There was no one around; this added to the sadness of the dream, as overwhelming loneliness and pain seemed to leach out of the wandering Methos's every pour. Methos knew well what that figure was feeling. He wanted to die, wanted to lie down and never move again, only the Quickening wouldn't let him. The lightning kept hitting him, kept searing his nerves and muscles into agonized movement every time he thought he'd found rest. It never ceased. There would be no end, no forgetting, no death. Not for him...

He woke with a jerk, the sheets damp around his sweating body. Old Dog had risen to all fours and was straddling his body, whimpering softly in concern. “Shhh. It’s all right, Old Dog. Just a bad dream,” Methos whispered. Old Dog promptly began licking his face. Methos permitted the onslaught, pleased that at least he didn’t have to worry about waking MacLeod. The Highlander was out like a light, loud snore filling the loft. “International flights. Better than any sleeping pill,” Methos told Old Dog wryly when the dog’s licking subsided, then looked unhappily at his watch. “Well, that’s good for us, as I don’t think I’m going to be able to go back to sleep. How about some reading? We still haven’t finished that Heinlein novel.” 

Old Dog communicated his strong approval of this plan, so Methos reached over to turn on the lamp, holding his breath as he did. When Duncan’s snoring continued unabated, Methos reached for the book on the end table—Old Dog graciously moved just enough to allow Methos to turn the pages—and began softly reading aloud the adventures of Lazarus Long and Dora in Happy Valley. (“You see, Old Dog? Even Lazarus had a canine companion—her name was Lady Macbeth. And you were complaining only yesterday that there weren’t enough strong canine characters in classic science fiction.”) Eventually Old Dog was snoring almost as loudly as the Highlander. “Scots,” Methos said fondly, and turned out the light.

Fortunately, the nightmares did not return.

***

Duncan had fully expected the couch to still be occupied when he opened his eyes the next morning. It didn’t matter that the sun was shining brightly in through the windows, proving that his jet lag had made him sleep several hours later than was his normal habit. Methos was a notorious morning lounger, and Duncan would have been willing to bet that any pet of the old Immortal would be just the same. But when Duncan sat up, stretching and yawning as he swung his bare feet to ground, the couch was empty. Instead, both Old Dog and Methos were in the kitchen. And Methos was giving an elaborate speech about why Old Dog should eat his kibble instead of Methos's poached eggs. 

It was a very good speech, given in the finest traditions of Socratic oratory. The only problem was that its intended audience remained annoyingly unimpressed. "Doesn't look like you're convincing him, Methos," Duncan said. He reached for a robe, decided the fabric was too heavy for such a warm morning, and strolled into the kitchen bare-chested. He snagged the bag of dog food off the counter as he passed. "Let's see what you're trying to get him to swallow."

Methos made a grab for the small bag, missing it completely. It really was unfair of MacLeod to saunter around in that particular pair of low-riding sweatpants, wearing neither shirt nor ponytail holder. The man was just too damn distracting with his hair down. "It's what the vet recommended," Methos said archly.

"It is? Well, let's take a look at it." Duncan easily evaded another few swipes from Methos and carried the bag to the island that separated the kitchen from the loft, where he sat down on a bar stool. "'Special Canine Senior Formula,'" Duncan read aloud. "'A unique blend of nutritional elements to enhance and support your special friend during his waning years. Contains a proprietary mix of both soluble and non-soluble fibers to enhance and regulate bowel health.' Good god, Methos! No wonder Old Dog doesn't want to eat this. That ad copy could just as easily grace a can of Metamucil."

"And just how would you know that? Immortals don't get constipated, MacLeod," Methos replied testily. He was having a very hard time not staring at the Highlander's lovely bare chest. "Besides, Old Dog has Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Remember?"

"Does that mean the poor beastie has to eat sawdust?"

"If you don't want to be cleaning nasty yellow diarrhea off your precious floors, it does," Methos answered. "Trust me on this. I made the mistake of thinking 'just one bite of human food won't hurt' the second day I had him." *And what a fun weekend that was, too,* Methos thought. *Old Dog tried, I know he did, but the stairs were too much for him and that elevator moves so damn slowly. I haven't done so much scrubbing since my time on the boat with the monks.*

Duncan looked at the floor with a frown. Methos knew, just knew, that he was going to ask where that throw rug that used to be in the corner had gone. Fortunately, the phone chose that moment to ring. *Saved by the bell,* Methos thought. *I knew I should have told the dry cleaners to rush that job.* “I’ll get it,” he said cheerfully, and picked up the receiver. “MacLeod’s!”

“Mr. Pierson? Is that you?”

The voice on the other end of the line was young and very female. Methos stiffened. “Yes?" he said cautiously. Only a handful of people knew he was staying here; everyone else had to be content with his cell phone's voice mail. Methos didn't give out Mac's phone number lightly, preferring that as few people as possible knew about their friendship. “Who is this, please?”

“Um, you probably don’t remember me, Mr. Pierson. My name is Allie…”

It came to him in a rush. "Oh, of course! Miss Allie, unsung angel of the Seacouver SPCA," he said, mentally kicking himself severely in the ass. Yes, he had indeed given this number on Old Dog's adoption paperwork, still lost in the fantasy of himself and the Highlander as mutual pet owners. *Old man, you have got to get a grip on yourself! This obsession is starting to make you careless.* "To what do I owe this pleasure, Allie?"

The young woman sounded both flustered and pleased. "You remember me, Mr. Pierson?"

"Well, it was only last week, after all," he said calmly, looking back into the kitchen. Duncan, wouldn’t you know it, had calmly appropriated Methos’s plate and was slurping his eggs contentedly—or was trying to, given that Old Dog had one paw on his bare foot and was staring at him with the unwavering gaze only hypnotists and hungry pets can truly manage. Methos smiled. *Only one week. It just seems like we've been together a lifetime.* "Please, call me Adam,” he said into the phone. “Well? Is there something wrong with Old Dog's adoption papers?" He suppressed the sudden rising panic he felt at the thought.

Duncan snapped his head around, clearly alarmed. "Uh, no. Not at all. Everything’s fine with adoption," Allie said quickly. Too quickly. "I, uh...well, it's the shelter's policy to call up all of our first time pet owners after they’ve had their animals for a while. You know, to answer questions, make sure everything's going okay with the adjustment..."

*Like hell it is,* Methos thought. *I know you don't have time for that*. "Oh, so you’re just checking up on us, then,” he said aloud. Duncan relaxed and turned back toward the kitchen, picking up another forkful of egg. *Bastard. If you didn’t look so damn hot half-naked and Old Dog wasn’t so quick about slurping up spilled human food, you’d be wearing those eggs by now. The things I do to preserve my dog’s health.* “Thank you, Allie, but we're doing just fine,” he said into the phone. “Apart from Old Dog's fatal obsession with my favorite sweater, that is." The girl didn't laugh. "Is everything all right at the shelter, Allie? You sound like there's something else you wanted to ask me."

"I--" Methos could practically hear the young woman blush. She took a deep breath. "Um. Mr. Pierson. Is everything all right between you and your boyfriend?" Methos's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "I can't believe I just asked you that," Allie rushed on, embarrassment plain. "Forget I said anything, all right? I know it's none of my business. It's just...well, when we opened this morning there was this blonde guy waiting on the doorstep. He wanted us to give him your address and phone number, and when we told him all our adoption records are kept confidential he became very...aggressive. Very, very aggressive. Fortunately Sarah--she's the other person who works here weekdays-- was able to convince him to go when she pulled out the pepper spray we keep under the desk, but it was a bit scary..."

"Yes. I imagine it was," Methos said soothingly. He shot a look at the Highlander, who seemed absorbed in his stolen breakfast. Duncan was polite enough to at least pretend not to listen in to other people’s conversations. Still, Methos was going to have to play this very, very carefully, if he didn’t want to answer awkward questions later. "Tell me, Allie,” he said, turning his back and lowering his voice. “Did he leave a name?" 

"No, but he's very easy to describe. I'd know him again anywhere…" 

And Methos knew him too, even before Allie had given him a perfect description of the Immortal he and Old Dog had encountered in the park. *Hunter Boy, right down to the silly blonde goatee. Oh, damn. This is just what I needed.* "Look, Mr. Peirs.. I mean Adam," Allie said when she had finished. "Like I said, this really isn't any of my business. But Sarah and I can both spot an abusive boyfriend a mile away, and...well, those of us in the rainbow community sometimes have to stick together to protect ourselves, y'know? This guy didn't seem at all like the man you described wanting to get the puppy for, but if he is, and he's hurting you...well, I know a couple good counselors and a sympathetic Sergeant working for the Seacouver Police. It really is possible to get help."

*Oh, no. I should have guessed,* Methos thought. *Not only is she the protector of Seacouver's entire stray animal population, now she's decided to adopt me, too. How on earth do I manage to keep getting myself into these kinds of messes? * He smiled ruefully, and spoke calmly but firmly into the receiver. "No, Allie,” he said. “Trust me. That’s not Duncan. Duncan MacLeod would never do a thing like that."

In the kitchen, Duncan frowned, unable to avoid being curious about the mention of his name. On the phone, Allie clearly wasn't convinced. "But you do know this blonde guy, right?" she asked.

"Well..." Sudden inspiration. "I *used* to..."

"Ah." Allie's understanding was like a flashbulb. "I get it. You left Blondie for your new guy, and he hasn't gotten over it, right?" Methos made vaguely affirmative noises. "No need to say anything more, Mr. Pierson--I've been there. Just let me say that I think you're well out of it, okay? This guy is a real piece of work." 

"Couldn't agree more," Methos said sincerely. "Listen, Allie. If anything else happens, will you give me a call? I'd appreciate the heads up."

"Sure thing, Mr. Pierson. Give Freckles...I mean Old Dog... a good scratch behind the ears for me."

"I will, Allie."

They said their goodbyes and Methos hung up, mind racing as he wondered what to do. *In the old days, I would have loaded up the car and headed for the hills,* he thought. *But I can’t do that now. There’s my job to consider, and Old Dog’s surgery…damn.* He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop for a moment. *Maybe it’s time for a heart to heart with Joe. He ought to be able to tell me who’s just blown into town, at least.* Methos cleared his throat. "Uh, MacLeod? I really hate to ask this, but I need a favor."

"Yes, Methos?" Duncan finished the last of his eggs and carried the plate to the sink, carefully avoiding looking at Old Dog’s expression of heart-broken agony. Good, Methos was off the phone. He could stop pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping now. “Is everything okay? You sounded kind of upset on the phone.”

“What? Oh, no.” Methos shook his head. “No, everything’s fine. The girl at the shelter was just inviting us to a new pet owner’s potluck.” 

Duncan raised his eyebrows expressively. “’Us?’”

Methos shrugged. “She heard your voice in the background and was gracious enough to extend the invitation. Apparently they always have a hard time getting people to come.” He shuddered theatrically. “Can’t imagine why. Warm pasta salad, cold hot dogs, a dozen yapping, snarling pets…who wouldn’t want to go? Don’t worry though, Mac. I told her it wasn’t your thing.”

Duncan relaxed. Well, at least that explained the “Duncan MacLeod would never do a thing like that” comment. But he was, much to his surprise, a little disappointed. An afternoon with Old Dog and Methos could have been fun, warm pasta salad notwithstanding. Duncan turned back to the sink and started scrubbing. “So tell me about this favor,” he said. “What do you need?” 

With a great effort, Methos tore his eyes away from the lovely picture at the sink. The Highlander seemed completely unaware of the way the sunshine from the kitchen window streamed over his hair and torso, and even more unaware of the way the scrubbing motion made his muscles play beneath his golden skin. *You,* Methos thought. *On a desert island with nothing but some very fine old scotch and a few dozen cases of massage oil. But I think I'm going to have to settle for some dog-sitting.* "Would you watch Old Dog for me for a few hours?” Methos asked. “I have some errands to run, and I really do need to call in at school. I arranged for a few weeks of vacation to see Old Dog through his surgery, but I have to do some paperwork before I disappear."

"Sure," Duncan said companionably, reflecting that only Methos, as a first year teacher, could have talked the Seacouver Community College Powers That Be into giving him so much time off. *His supervisor must be female and highly susceptible to 'cute'.* Just in time Duncan remembered that he wasn't supposed to be too pleased about Old Dog's presence, and he pasted on a severe look. "I mean, if you really have to. I'll watch him this one time. But don't let this become a habit with you, Methos."

"Yes, sir." Methos wasn't fooled. The Highlander was practically jumping up and down at the chance to be alone with his dog. *Oh, Mac. If only…* Old Dog trotted over to Methos’s knee, tail wagging softly, and Methos suddenly felt an irrational stab of fear—this would be the first time he and Old Dog had been parted since the adoption. He felt a bit like a new mother leaving her baby with a sitter for the first time. "Take good care of him, all right?"

"Methos!” Duncan turned away from the sink to face him, clearly offended. “I think I know how to take care of a dog!"

"Just remember that when he scratches at the elevator grate he needs out *now*, not ten minutes from now, and you'll be fine." Methos stooped down, whispered "Be gentle with him" into Old Dog's ears, and left. First he would go to the college. Then he’d have that chat with Joe.

***

Duncan and Old Dog had a delightful morning. First, Old Dog slept on the couch next to Duncan while Duncan made phone calls and finished some paperwork left over from his trip. Then the two drove to the park for a walk, nothing too taxing for Old Dog's bad leg, just a gentle airing. Duncan quickly discovered that Old Dog's presence made him quite the chick magnet. Attractive females who might normally be too intimidated to approach him thought nothing of coming up to pet the rather pathetic looking border collie at Duncan’s knee. "Oh, poor puppy, he looks so skinny! Did you just get him from the pound?" "What a sweet doggie! What happened to his leg?" One charming lady even helped Duncan pick up and dispose of Old Dog's droppings. Both Scots preened under the unexpected attention, although a certain gleam in Old Dog's eye told Duncan that to the canine, the extra praise and petting weren't quite so unexpected. Had Methos been similarly swamped with feminine friendliness? Maybe the old Immortal had known what he was doing when it came to this pet ownership thing, after all.

When Old Dog got tired Duncan carried him back to the T-Bird. He drove to a nearby grocery store, leaving the dog in the car while he picked up enough eggs to surprise Methos with an elaborate breakfast omelet the next day. (Duncan hadn’t missed the black gaze Methos had cast his way when he’d stolen his plate that morning.) As he checked out, Duncan’s eyes were drawn to the display of soft-serve ice cream near the register. He was strongly tempted to buy a cone for his canine companion, but remembered Methos’s warnings about human food just in time. Instead he grabbed a cold bottle of water out of the refrigerator section, which he gave to Old Dog in the parking lot via the simple, if rather messy, method of pouring a little at a time into his hand and letting the dog lap the water out of his cupped fingers. “Thirsty, weren’t you boy,” he said, noting the eager way the dog drank. “Guess I’m going to have to get a water bowl to keep in the glove compartment if we do this often. I think I saw some made of waterproof fabric you could fold up in a catalog once—“ 

Duncan stopped himself, wondering just when, exactly, he had lost his mind. Old Dog belonged to Methos, not to him. Methos, the friend of Duncan’s most likely to disappear for months on end with only a hastily scrawled note of goodbye. Duncan had no right to assume that he’d see so much as one crooked ear on the dog’s head after Methos moved out, much less be taking him for regular walks. He looked down, startled by the sadness that thought caused, only to see Old Dog regarding him with what had to be described as a knowing grin. “Nutso dog,” Duncan said, wiping his damp hand across the animal’s head, making the fur stand up in cute little wet spikes. “I guess I don’t have to wonder how you talked Methos into adopting you, do I? I’ve known you less than a day, and you’ve already got me charmed.”

Old Dog smiled serenely.

All in all, it was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon before Duncan and Old Dog returned to the dojo. Old Dog stood up in the passenger’s seat the moment Duncan turned onto the street. He let out a single sharp bark. “That’s right, almost home,” Duncan said cheerfully, irrationally pleased that the dog could recognize his street. Old Dog barked again, banging his nose into the windshield. Duncan looked where the dog was looking, and felt a chill go down his spine.

There was a black and white police car parked outside the dojo’s front entrance. And Methos was standing on the sidewalk, having a very earnest conversation with two police officers.

“No. Oh, no.” Duncan quickly guided the T-bird to a stop beside the curb, meeting Methos’s eyes through the windshield. The relief he saw there made Duncan feel unexpectedly proud, as well as intensifying his worry. It was plain that Methos's normal charm was having very little effect on the stony-faced police people, and that did not bode well. *Please god, don't actually have let them seen him take the head! We can cope with anything else.* Duncan cut the ignition and jumped out onto the sidewalk, hurrying to Methos’s side. The police officers looked up at him belligerently.

Methos ignored the belligerence. "Ah, there they are now," he said smoothly. "Duncan, would you kindly lift Old Dog out of the car, please? These nice police officers would like to see him."

Perplexed, Duncan did as he was asked, going to the passenger's side and lifting the border collie in his arms. *’Nice officers?’ Wanting to see Old Dog? What on earth is going on?* He carried the squirming canine to the sidewalk and set him down. Old Dog quickly limped to Methos, tail wagging mad-propeller circles in the air. Methos knelt to murmur soothingly to the dog, then looked at Duncan shyly. "I nearly had heart failure when I went up to the loft and saw you two weren't there," he said. "I'm so glad you're both all right."

"We just went to the park for a walk," Duncan said, a bit ashamed that he hadn't thought to leave a note. "Adam, what on earth--"

The rest of the sentence was interrupted by the senior of the two officers, a tired looking red-head. "*This* is the dog?" she said with pointed emphasis. "I don't believe it!"

"Well, he does fit the description the girl at the shelter gave us," her younger partner said dubiously. "Right size, right breed, right everything. He even has the right color eyes and the spots on his nose. I'm afraid this must be it."

"But this dog doesn't look like he could hobble ten feet without help, much less attack anyone. God. I'm tempted to take him downtown. The captain could use a good laugh today." She shook her head and turned to Methos. "Mr. Pierson, I must apologize. We all seem to be the victims of a prank. There's no way this...animal...could possibly have inflicted the damage Mr. Smith was claiming."

"No," Methos said calmly. "As you can see, Old Dog isn't in the best of shape. He has a surgery to replace the broken ligament in his leg scheduled for next month. I'm afraid our walk home from the shelter that night was quite uneventful. Once or twice I did get the impression that someone was following us--that's why I hailed the cab--but I certainly never laid eyes on this Mr. Smith. I'm sorry you had to come all this way for nothing."

"It's all right," replied the policewoman, although her sour face clearly indicated just the opposite. "Between you and me, I always thought that guy was a few cherries short of a pie. After all, he did wait more than a week to report the attack, and he didn't actually have any photos of his alleged wounds. But we have to take this sort of complaint very seriously. You understand."

Methos nodded crisply. "I certainly do."

The officers left. Methos whistled to Old Dog, and they started walking through the empty dojo side by side, both man and beast slumped as if they carried the weight of the entire world on their shoulders. Duncan ran to catch up. "Methos!"

Methos entered the elevator and turned around, eyes curiously blank. "What is it, MacLeod?"

Duncan followed him into the elevator and gestured at the dojo entrance. "Aren't you going to tell me what that was all about?"

"It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding." Absently, as though his thoughts were a million miles away, Methos hit the elevator button. The two Immortals started upward. 

"Misunderstanding?” Duncan placed his hands on his hips. “Misunderstandings don't usually bring the police to the door, Methos."

Methos snorted. "So says Mr. MacLeod of the 'really, officer, I don't have any idea WHAT you're talking about' fame. *How* many times, exactly, have the Paris Police searched your barge during the last five years?" The elevator halted. Methos stalked into the loft, Old Dog at his heels.

"Methos!" Duncan exclaimed, and when the old Immortal turned, he held out his hands helplessly. "You scared me half to death, you know," he said. "I was wondering how I was going to get you to Canada if they'd seen you take the head."

Methos held his gaze for a moment, then softened. "Oh, Mac," he said. "Thank you, but your concern was unnecessary. There's no disembodied head to be found.” Grimly he stalked to the couch and threw himself on it, making room for Old Dog as an afterthought. "Thus far all the police suspect me of is being the sort of disturbed individual who adopts stray animals strictly so he can set them on defenseless people in parks."

"That's insane!"

"Thank you. I'm glad to know you think so," Methos said, a trace of humor returning. "Unfortunately, they had a witness. Earlier this afternoon one Mr. J. Smith—original name, yes?--went to the police station and told them I'd done just that. Adopted Old Dog, and then forced him to attack Mr. Smith. And even though this Mr. Smith had no wounds or other evidence, he made enough of a nuisance that they felt they had to check me out."

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Who knows? A disgruntled student, probably. I had to flunk several at midterms.”

Duncan frowned. There was something in Methos’s tone that made him suspect the old Immortal wasn’t being strictly truthful. *Not that there’s anything unusual about that,* Duncan thought sourly. *99% of the time, I have no idea whether he’s being honest with me or not. Let’s face it, playing ‘Let’s Perplex the Highlander’ was Methos’s favorite sport before Old Dog came along and started stealing his sweaters. But still…* “Did the police give you a description of this Mr. Smith?” he asked. “Did he resemble one of your students?”

“What? Oh, no.” Methos seemed startled by the question; his mind appeared to have gone wandering. “No, he doesn’t sound like anyone I know. But all that means is that one of my kids bribed a friend in his drama class to make the report instead.” 

“Hmmmm.” 

Duncan walked over to the couch, looking down at the occupants in a silent request for them to move over. When neither man nor dog took the hint Duncan balanced himself on the armrest, a doubtful, preoccupied expression on his face. Methos stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head with a bitter laugh. “For god’s sake, Highlander, this is not worth brooding about. It’s all right. Really. Just somebody’s idea of a practical joke, and once the police saw Old Dog, they realized it for themselves. No harm done.” 

“Hmmmm,” Duncan said again. Then he forced himself to snap out of it. If the World’s Oldest Dissembler had something he wanted to hide, there was no way a child like him was ever going to succeed in digging it up. Duncan got up from his remarkably uncomfortable seat, thinking that he’d have to buy a new couch with padded arms, and then smirked at himself—only Methos could make a man go furniture shopping with such a criteria in mind. Most people generally expected that they’d be able to sit on the seats of the furniture in their own homes. “I need to go back down to the street for a minute. I left some groceries in the T-Bird,” Duncan said aloud, raising his arms to stretch muscles that had knotted the instant he’d seen the police car. “Do you have any plans for dinner?”

Methos, who had watched the stretch with an inscrutable look in his eyes, shrugged. “Nothing I can’t cancel if you’re offering to buy.”

“I thought I’d make something here. I just wanted to know if I should make enough for two.”

“By all means, Highlander. Although I should warn you. Old Dog has a way of looking at man that could make a Beefeater abandon his post to go buy doggy treats. The performance he gave you this morning was only a tenth of what he’s truly capable of.” Methos smirked. “If you’re planning to cook a full meal and then eat it with him in residence, you’d better prepare to make your heart into stone.”

“I think I'll take the risk.”

***

Methos waited until MacLeod had slid the elevator grate closed and had sunk from sight before he sprung into action, moving with a speed that would have startled anyone who’d witnessed the boneless sprawl he’d been in a minute before. It certainly startled Old Dog, who let out a sharp bark of surprise. “It’s all right, Old Dog,” Methos said soothingly, but he didn’t slow down to comfort him; he only had a few precious moments before the Highlander returned. He scrabbled for the phone, dialing a number from memory. “Joe? Yes, it’s me. Do you have anything yet?” He listened for a few moments. “Still nothing, huh. Damn. No, for the final time, I really never did see him before in my life. And yes, I would tell you if I had. Yes, really. For once I am actually telling you the truth. Keep looking, okay? Thanks, Joe. Keep in touch.”

He hung up and flung himself back onto the couch just as the elevator started up again, closing his eyes and arranging himself in an “I’m tired, don’t bother me” pose. Methos felt the Highlander’s eyes rest on him for several moments when he opened the grate, but he took the hint, simply carrying the groceries into the kitchen as quietly as possible. It was a courtesy Methos appreciated. He *was* tired after last night’s nightmare, and furthermore he was frightened and frustrated and confused. He folded an arm over his eyes to keep out the light and sunk into a brood while Duncan silently put his purchases away.

It had not been a very good day. When he’d visited Joe that morning, Methos had been disturbed to discover that Joe had no personal knowledge of any Immortal matching Goatee Boy’s description. Joe couldn’t find any mention of him in any of the Active Chronicles on-line, either. The blonde Immortal appeared to be a mystery, and Methos did not care for mysteries. Especially not when they had shown remarkable ingenuity in coming for his head. 

To think Methos had thought that harassing the young ladies at the SPCA to get his name and address had been bad! Reporting Old Dog to the Seacouver Police had been a stroke of brilliance, one Methos could almost have admired if it hadn’t been directed at him. In the best of possible worlds, (from Mr. J Smith’s point of view) the police would have hauled Methos and Old Dog down to the station, thus saving the Immortal the bother of tracking Methos down himself. If that didn’t work, well, having the police show up on one's doorstep was something most Immortals found unsettling. And an unsettled Immortal was much more likely to do something stupid that ended up costing him his head… 

In the kitchen, Duncan opened the refrigerator. Old Dog jumped from couch at the sound and instantly made a bee-line toward him, making Methos smile even as he automatically took advantage of the couch space the border collie had vacated. He might as well get all the rest he could, now that his two-hundred year absence from the Game had truly come to an end. Yes, he’d taken Kristin’s head last fall, but that hadn’t really counted. Kristin had been so out of practice that the Challenge had taken all of two minutes. Somehow, Methos doubted Goatee Boy would be so easy. 

He sighed. He’d have to get up early tomorrow, leave Old Dog with MacLeod while he looked for a new place to work out. If Methos took advantage of the dojo to train, Duncan would be bound to ask questions. Questions which, if Methos answered them honestly, would undoubtedly lead the Highlander to challenge the Mysterious Unknown himself….and that was something Methos simply couldn’t allow. He made a sour face at himself as he sunk deeper into the couch. Not all that many centuries ago, he would have been happy to let a man like MacLeod fight his fights. But now…well. Generations of cynical philosophers had been right. Being in love really *did* make one vulnerable. If Methos was smart he’d pack up Old Dog and leave right now…

“Methos? Are you still awake?”

MacLeod’s voice came from the kitchen, sounding rather strained. Methos cracked open one eye. “Marginally,” he conceded. “What seems to be the problem, Mac?”

“Could you come speak to your dog, please? He doesn’t seem to want to let me by.”

Methos shoved himself up on one elbow and looked into the kitchen. Duncan had finished putting away the groceries and had started making supper. On the counter was an onion and a knife set out in preparation for chopping, and the Highlander himself was standing near the refrigerator, arms full of packaged hamburger. The problem was Old Dog, who was standing in between Duncan and the counter, tail wagging manically. The dog’s posture wasn’t threatening in the least, but he was holding the Highlander hostage with the power of his eye alone. Methos could sympathize, having often been the victim of that hypnotizing gaze himself. “I did warn you,” Methos said mildly.

“Yeah, I know, but…” Duncan tried taking a short step to the left, and then to the right. Old Dog matched each motion perfectly, eyes glinting and teeth gleaming as if Duncan had just invented the best game *ever.* It was bit like watching a multi-species version of the hokey-pokey. “Damn it, Methos, this isn’t the time for I Told You So’s,” Duncan said in frustration. “Do something, will you? He’s starting to make me feel like a sheep.”

Methos snickered loudly. It was quite a sight, seeing of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod being held hostage by an aged three-legged dog. Methos wished he had a camera. The moment was priceless, and well worth preserving for future generations in the Chronicles. But he knew Duncan would never forgive him if he left him waiting while he went to go find one. “Old Dog. That will do,” Methos said firmly, and Old Dog instantly returned to his side, much to MacLeod’s obvious amazement. The Highlander stared, open-mouthed, as Methos patted the couch and the border collie jumped up to join him, turning around several times before settling down with his hindquarters against Methos’s arm. Methos gave Duncan his best smug look. “Is there anything else you require, MacLeod?”

“I—you—he—oh, go back to sleep,” Duncan growled, tossing the hamburger package onto the counter with a much louder thump than necessary. Methos rolled onto his side to hide his grin, narrowly avoiding a sneeze when he got a face-full of Old Dog’s tail. Yes, love made you vulnerable, all right. It had been more than seventy years since Methos had last allowed himself to become this…entangled. But, if he was honest, it had also been that long since he’d had this much fun…

He tucked Old Dog’s tail firmly under his arm to avoid any more sneeze-inducing tickles and closed his eyes.

***

**_~Two Weeks Later~_ **

“Mac. Do you think you could watch Old Dog for a couple of hours again tonight? I need to go out. I should be home by eight at the latest.”

Duncan, who was sitting at the kitchen counter reading the newspaper while Methos finished his morning toast and Old Dog slurped his kibble, looked at Methos curiously. This was the seventh evening in a row that Methos had asked Duncan to dog-sit. It wasn't that watching the canine was a hardship; in the two weeks since Duncan had been home from Japan, Old Dog had worked his way into Duncan’s heart so deeply that Duncan no longer knew how he was going to handle it when Methos eventually moved out and took the dog away. But the request *did* surprise him a little. Somehow, when Duncan had asked—all right, ordered—Methos to stay with him until the Immortal could find a more dog-friendly apartment, Duncan hadn’t imagined that he’d be spending more time with Old Dog than his owner. “Do you have to go out tonight?” Duncan asked, trying hard to hide his disappointment. “It’s Friday, after all. I thought I’d order some pizzas, get a case of that beer you like. You know. Celebrate surviving our first fortnight as roommates.”

Methos looked surprised. “Has it really been that long?” he asked. “That’s amazing. It’s been going so smoothly, I lost track.” 

Duncan nodded emphatically. He knew exactly what Methos meant. It wasn’t that Duncan hadn’t enjoyed having Methos as a houseguest in the past—he had. It was just that after a few short days, they always seemed to end up getting on each other’s nerves. Methos would begin to grouse about Duncan’s habit of waking up at 5:30 to run. Duncan would snipe back about having to fall asleep with the lamp on while Methos stayed up late reading in bed. And there was always a constant low-lying tension over who got the first shower and used up the loft’s admittedly inadequate hot water supply. They never quite got into actual fights, but the tension was there nonetheless—and Duncan had learned to be grateful that Methos had a habit of departing with just as little warning and fanfare as he always arrived. Usually, just before one or the other would have snapped, Duncan would return home to find Methos’s luggage missing and a simple “Thanks for the hospitality, Mac. Call you soon,” note on the fridge. It always irked Duncan that he felt so relieved when this happened—he firmly believed that a good host should be able to manage far more than the three days the Japanese traditionally gave both guests and fish—but it was true. He and Methos were simply too set in their ways, too fond of their own routines, to adapt to another person’s presence for long. And Duncan hadn’t honestly expected this time to be any different.

But it was. And one didn't have to look too far past Old Dog’s wagging tail to know why. It was *hard* to be ill-tempered when there was a bright-eyed border collie in the room, ready and willing to bark away any trace of a bad mood. Old Dog gave the two Immortals a mutual focus, something to talk about when other conversational topics lagged, and something to plan their days around. Arguments over bed times and waking times were a thing of the past, since Methos *had* to get up early if he wanted to get Old Dog walked and watered before his first class. Duncan had just naturally fallen into the habit of having breakfast ready for all three of them when Methos and Old Dog returned from the park. Which is what they had been doing—Old Dog finally having been persuaded that his nutritious, Special Senior Formula Kibble really was all he was going to get—when Methos had brought up going out. “I’d love to stay in tonight, Mac,” the old Immortal said, looking regretful. “But I’m afraid I can’t. I really do have to be elsewhere.”

“Can’t you take Old Dog with you?” Duncan had really wondered about this point. Apart from these odd evening errands of Methos’s, the two were nearly inseparable. Methos had even started taking Old Dog to school with him, where the border collie sat in his very own chair at the front of the classroom and listened to Methos’s lectures with every appearance of enjoyment. (Methos’s supervisor had originally objected to this, but when Methos was able to show her how his class attendance had improved—Old Dog was very popular with his students—she’d relented. “Just tell the people at the health department that he’s a service dog, if anyone asks,” was all she'd said.) Given that Methos had also successfully charmed Old Dog’s way into the grocery store, the barber shop, and the county library, Duncan was curious just what kind of errand Methos could run where the canine wouldn’t be welcome. “I mean, you take him pretty much everywhere as it is," Duncan said. "You could probably even sweet talk him into a black-tie event at the Seacouver Met, knowing you.”

“Well, he *is* already formally dressed,” Methos said. Duncan chuckled. Old Dog’s pattern of black fur and white blaze did make him look remarkably like he was wearing a tuxedo. All Methos would have to add was a bow tie. “But I’m not going to the Met,” Methos continued. “And I can’t take him with me tonight. So how about it, MacLeod? Are you up for the challenge? Or do I have to bribe one of my students with the prospect of extra credit to take care of him?”

“Isn’t that against college policy, giving credit for personal favors?”

“Undoubtedly. But it’s also a very good lesson in how the world really works. Decide, MacLeod.”

“Well…” Duncan surrendered. They both knew he was going to do it anyway, so he might as well give in now. “Fine. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you having an ethics violation on your record. I’ll watch him. Maybe I’ll finally even succeed at teaching him how to play fetch.”

He didn’t even have to look Methos’s way to know Methos was smirking. “*Old Dog* already knows how to play a perfectly fine game of fetch,” Methos said. “*You’re* the one who still hasn’t learned the rules. But never mind. I’m sure he’ll enjoy trying to train you further.” Methos snapped his fingers, and Old Dog hobbled to his side. “Bye, Mac. See you tonight.”

“Bye, Methos.”

Left in the surprisingly lonely stillness of a Methos- and Old Dog-free apartment, Duncan cleared the breakfast dishes, wondering again where Methos could be going at night. Duncan knew it was none of his business. Methos was his guest, after all, not a child who needed to keep Duncan informed of all his comings and goings. But the old Immortal had been remarkably secretive about his destination, so much so that Duncan had started to wonder: could Methos be dating again? It had been nearly a year since Alexa’s death, after all. And as much as Methos sometimes joked about spending the next few centuries as a bachelor, Duncan knew all it would take was the right pair of sparkling eyes for him to change his mind. Alexa herself had proven that. The thought gave Duncan an unexpected pang of sadness. He’d gotten very used to having Methos in his life, especially since he and Old Dog had been living in the loft. But Duncan squashed the sadness ruthlessly. If Methos had found someone that made him happy, Duncan should be happy for him. That’s all there was to it.

It was just…Methos didn’t *seem* happy. He certainly didn’t act like a man in love. He didn’t dress up for these evening appointments at all, always going out in the same Old Dog–friendly t-shirts and jeans he habitually wore outside of class. And he tended to return home tired, too tired to do anything but flop on the couch with Old Dog at his side. Then there were the nightmares. Several times now, Duncan had been woken in the middle of the night by a low pitched crying noise. He’d always thought it was Old Dog whining to get out—until he turned on the light and discovered that it was Methos making the sound instead, thrashing in his sleep while Old Dog stood guard. The handful of times Duncan had braved Old Dog’s wrath to wake him, Methos had laughed it off. He said that falling asleep with thirty pounds of border collie on one’s chest was enough to give anyone nightmares, especially when Old Dog hadn’t yet had his weekly bath. But Duncan wondered. He wanted badly to ask more, find out what the dreams were about…but he couldn’t. Friends though they were, Methos was still a very private person. There were some lines Duncan just couldn’t cross until he was invited. 

And it didn’t look like Methos was going to invite him anytime soon. 

That evening, the phone rang while Duncan was playing fetch with Old Dog. This was not as successful an endeavor as Duncan could have hoped. Playing fetch with the border collie consisted of Duncan throwing the tennis ball, waiting an interminable for Old Dog to get up and get it, and then finally giving up and bringing it back himself, after which Duncan would explain for the thousandth time that it was the *dog* who was supposed to retrieve the ball, not the human. It didn’t seem to matter just how often he explained this, or how big a fool he made of himself scampering across the loft on his hands and knees in an attempt to show the dog just how much fun retrieving really was. Old Dog just stayed put and watched him with a suspiciously cagey canine grin, and Duncan was ready to concede that Methos might have a point. Maybe it really was him, and not the dog, who didn’t understand the rules. In any event, Duncan was glad of the phone’s interruption. “Hello?” 

“Hey, Mac. This is Joe.”

“Hey, Joe!” With a slightly guilty start, Duncan realized that he hadn’t talked to the bartender at all since he’d gotten back from Japan. Funny, how one old dog and one even older Immortal could take up all his time. “Listen, Joe. I’m sorry I haven’t made it down to the bar since I got home. I just…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joe interrupted before the excuse could be fully formed. “I understand why you and Methos would both want to lie low for a while. It’s okay.” The Watcher lowered his voice, spoke in a hush. “Look. I finally identified that Immortal who’s been Hunting Methos.”

A chill, colder and darker than anything Duncan had experienced in recent memory, went through the Highlander’s entire body. Someone was after Methos? “You did?”

“Yeah. His name's Karver, Ian Karver. Or at least that’s what he’s going by these days,” Joe answered. “Tell Methos that there was a good reason why we couldn’t find him in any of the active Chronicles. He was classified as too dangerous to Watch more than seventy years ago.”

Oh, man. This just kept getting better and better. “Too dangerous?”

“Yeah. He killed the last Watcher assigned to him, way back in 1924. That’s why we lost track.” Joe sounded weary. “Tell Methos to really watch himself, Mac. According to the old entries, this guy's a sadist first class. Once he's set his sights on someone, he turns the Game into a sport—setting people up, playing mind games with them for weeks before he finally Challenges them. You think he’s given up on you when suddenly there he is again, grinning at you from across the street--he really likes to play with his prey. His last Watcher nicknamed him ‘The Cat’ for that very reason. Just before he died.” Joe sounded hesitant. “It might be best for Methos to get out of town for a while. You know. Disappear.”

“I don’t think he can, Joe,” Duncan said slowly. “Old Dog’s surgery is two weeks from Monday, and Methos has a lot of work to do at the college so he can take time off. I don’t think he could leave now even if he wanted to.” Which, Duncan reflected with sudden terrible understanding, perfectly explained Methos’s nightmares and general distractibility since Duncan had returned from Japan. *My god. He’s being Hunted. No wonder he’s been acting so strange.* Duncan cleared his throat. “Joe, where did Methos and this Karver guy first cross paths?”

“Methos didn’t tell you?” 

Joe sounded surprised, and Duncan hid a sigh. *No, Joe, Methos didn’t tell me, and I wish I knew why* he thought. *But since I can never puzzle out just what’s going through his mind, I’ll just be grateful that apparently he forgot to tell YOU that he wasn’t telling me. So I’ll just play it cool and see how much information I can get.* “He didn’t give me a lot of details, Joe. I’d appreciate it if you could fill me in.”

“Oh.” Joe sounded confused, but he clearly decided to let it go. “Well, Methos told me that they first met at the animal shelter where he adopted Old Dog. I guess Karver was waiting outside for him while he was doing the paperwork, and Challenged him on the way home.” Joe suddenly snickered. “Old Dog attacked him.”

“He what???”

“Yeah. Apparently, he got away from Methos and took a good chunk out of Karver’s leg. Which gave Methos just enough time to pick him up and run--‘ignobly and with great speed’, Methos said.” Joe’s snickers died away. “Hey, maybe that’s why Methos didn’t tell you about it—he didn’t want you to think he was a coward. Don’t tell him I told you, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Joe. I won’t tell him.” *But why didn’t he tell me? It can’t be because he was really afraid I’d see him as a coward—not after all the times he’s urged me to live and fight another day. And even I know how impossible it would be to fight a Challenge with Old Dog growling at your heels, so surely he couldn’t think I’d blame him for running then. So why didn’t he ask for my help? I know it’s been more than two hundred years since he’s taken a head. Unless you count Kristin…but that was different. She wasn’t much of a fighter by anybody’s standards. And Methos only Challenged her because I forced him to; it wasn’t like she’d been stalking him, wearing him down. My god. He must feel so trapped. So scared…* Duncan looked down at Old Dog, who was watching him with concerned doggy eyes. “Joe, what do the Chronicles have to say about this guy’s fighting style?”

“He—“ Joe sounded upset. “He sounds pretty nasty, Mac. Old and strong and doesn’t play fair. If you were fighting him, I’d put my money on you, but I’d still want you to get a good night’s sleep first. But Methos…” 

Joe let the words trail off, and Duncan nodded in silent agreement. They both knew Methos’s primary fighting strategy these days was to avoid Challenges altogether. He kept in shape, and during their one and only spar Duncan had been surprised by Methos’s stamina and knowledge of technique, but Duncan had still beaten him easily. “Look, Mac,” Joe said after the uncomfortable pause had stretched on too long. “Keep an eye on him, okay?”

“I will, Joe.” *I certainly will.*

They hung up, and Duncan slid to the floor, covering his face tiredly with his hands. He was distracted by a gentle nudge: Old Dog had dropped the tennis ball at his feet. “Good boy,” Duncan said, startled and pleased by this evidence that he’d apparently taught the stubborn canine to retrieve after all—only to have the dog give the yellow ball a sharp push with his nose, sending it rolling across the smooth wooden floor. Old Dog then sat back on his haunches and looked at Duncan expectantly. “No, no, no!” Duncan shouted, patience at an end. “I keep telling you, *I’m* the one who throws the ball. *You’re* the one who fetches—“ 

…and then Duncan heard himself, the sheer abject frustration in his voice, and abruptly he started to laugh. Old Dog seemed relieved. He crowded up under Duncan’s arm with his tail wagging, entire body wiggling with as much enthusiasm as his arthritic joints could muster. “You old timers,” Duncan said fondly when his laughter had subsided. “You just have to do things your own way, don’t you? I really should have learned that by now.” Old Dog gave a loud yip. Duncan shook his head wistfully. “But I can’t let Methos have his own way on this one, Old Dog. He needs help, even if he is too stubborn to admit it. It’s—he’s—well, I have to take care of him, that’s all. He’s much too important to lose. You understand that, don’t you?” 

Old Dog licked his face.

***

Duncan announced at breakfast the next morning that he would be gone most of the day. After Methos’s mysterious errands (Was he trying to track down Karver? Or doing something else?) Duncan felt he didn’t need to be too specific, although he did have a cover story prepared just in case he needed it. He didn’t, though. Methos just um-hummed distractedly over the Healing Pet Massage book he was reading and told Duncan to have a good day. Old Dog gave Duncan a piercing stare, but that was one of the many good things about having a dog as a confidant: they couldn’t rat you out to your human roommates. Duncan took the stairs down to the street and turned his steps downtown.

The logical place to start the hunt for Ian Carver was the animal shelter. Duncan didn’t have to work too hard to find it. The address was printed clearly on Old Dog’s adoption certificate, which was still lying on the kitchen counter in the loft. (Duncan had teased Methos a few days ago about getting a frame for the certificate. Methos had hmphed and looked offended. Still, Duncan had the feeling that someday the certificate would indeed be framed and given a place of honor amongst Methos’s art collection, cute caricature puppy dogs and all.) 

The shelter was not located in a particularly good part of town. In fact, Duncan had to step pretty carefully in order to avoid some of the more noisesome piles of rubbish on the street. But he found the entrance—frowning a little at the dirty windows that surrounded the Humane Society logo—and reached for the handle, glad that he was wearing his gloves. He let himself in, and found a teenage girl sitting behind the counter, leaning on her elbows. “Well, hello there!” she said with a twinkle.

Duncan decided to play up to the twinkle. “Hello yourself,” he said, with his most charming smile. He expected the girl to blush and look away, as most young ladies her age invariably did. Much to his surprise, she just smiled wider, leaning on the desk with a patient look in her eyes. “I need some information,” Duncan said. “Can you help me out?”

“Depends,” the girl answered. “If you want to know the best flea remedies on the market or the best diet for a cat with kidney problems, I’m your woman. If you want to know the orbital velocity of the moon or the name of Henry the 8th’s fifth wife, I’ll have to send you to the library.”

“Katherine Howard,” Duncan answered without thinking, and the girl raised her eyebrows appreciatively. Duncan cleared his throat. “But actually, I was hoping you could tell me about an animal you placed a few weeks back. It was a border collie, male, with a torn ligament in his back leg. My friend Adam Pierson adopted him. Perhaps you remember…”

He trailed off. The girl had bolted upright, a pleased expression on her face. “You’re Duncan MacLeod!” she exclaimed.

Duncan was taken aback. “Er, yes,” he said. “How did you know?”

“Oh, Adam talked a lot about you while he was here,” the girl said. Her eyes swept from the top of Duncan’s head to the soles of his boots, then she settled back into her chair with a happy sigh. “Wow. He did say you were athletic, but I had no idea!”

“Athletic?”

“Don’t worry, he wasn’t bragging,” the girl said reassuringly. “He was just trying to help me figure out what kind of dog would be best for you two. He said you’d want something that could run with you. ‘A real dog, not an overgrown rat’, I think were his exact words.”

Duncan frowned. That last comment certainly sounded like Methos…but why on earth would Methos have cared whether Duncan could run with his new pet or not? Could Methos have originally come to the shelter to adopt a pet for Duncan as gift, and then fallen in love with Old Dog en route? Duncan shook his head; it all made very little sense. “I know Freckles probably wasn’t what you had in mind,” the girl went on, completely misinterpreting Duncan’s confusion. “Adam said you’d want a golden retriever or a black lab puppy instead. But Freckles is a really a great dog, and I could tell from the look on Adam’s face that they belonged together. It happens like that, sometimes. Love at first sight.” The girl suddenly looked alarmed. “You haven’t changed your mind about keeping him, have you?”

“What? Oh, no,” Duncan stammered. “No. Absolutely not.” He forced himself to get a grip. “There’s nothing wrong with Old Dog. He’s wonderful, everything anyone could want. I just…” A deep breath. “Look, the night Adam adopted Old Dog he was followed home by someone. Tall, blonde, with a goatee. I was wondering if you might have seen…”

Fire flashed in the girl’s eyes. “That bastard!” she said vehemently. “You mean he was following Adam *that* night, too? What a creep! I was wondering how he’d found out Adam had adopted a dog from us.” She collapsed back into her chair, muttering angrily. “That’s…that’s *stalking*, that’s what it is. Adam should report him, press charges if he can. Get him off the streets.”

Duncan blinked. “He came here?”

“Yes, about a week after the adoption. He wanted us to give him Adam’s contact information. Adam didn’t tell you?” 

Those four words were rapidly becoming Duncan’s least favorite phrase in the English language. He shook his head, feeling a bit battered by events. “Did you give it to him?”

“Of course not!” The girl looked affronted. “Like I told Adam when I called the other day—” Duncan groaned internally; so *that’s* what that mysterious phone call from the shelter had been about—“we called the police, and he left before they could get here. But...” She sobered. “Actually, I was meaning to call you guys again. Night before last we had a break in—nothing serious, but the lock on the front door was forced. The weird thing was, the only thing that was taken was a few business cards. You know, the ones we give out for groomers and walkers, vets that offer low-cost medical care, that sort of thing. It didn’t look like anything else was disturbed. But today I started wondering. We do have a lock on our file cabinets, and we’re supposed to keep our client’s personal information in there, but I’m afraid we lost the key a couple years back. We keep meaning to replace it but…well, you know how it is. We barely have enough money to pay the electric bill some months. Anybody could have gone through the files that night, and we’d never know…”

*Oh, no.* “You think Ian Karver broke in here just to steal Adam’s information?”

The girl flushed prettily. “If he did, he didn’t get it,” she said. “I, um—well, after I talked to Adam and he explained what was going on, I thought it might be best if I took Old Dog’s papers home with me. Keep them safe, just in case that creep came by again when one of the other volunteers was here. Not everyone who works here understands the situation like Sarah and I do.”

“I—” This was by far the most disturbing element of what had been a very disturbing conversation so far. Duncan felt himself grow pale. “So, uh, Adam explained the whole situation to you?”

The girl nodded, then grinned. “Well, you don’t have to look like you swallowed a dinner plate! It’s okay. Really it is.” She reached across the table and placed a hand gently on Duncan’s arm. “Look. I’m guessing from your reaction that not too many people know the truth about you two…”

Forget pale…Duncan now felt himself turning a most unflattering shade of green. Methos had actually told this child he was Immortal? “Er…”

The girl nodded again, a knowing smile on her face. “So I can understand how scary it must be to even think about going to the police,” she finished. “But really, this Karver guy has stepped over a line. He needs to be behind bars. You need to talk Adam into making a formal complaint.”

Duncan relaxed. Anyone who thought the police were an option in this case obviously didn’t know the whole the truth. It was going to be okay. “I appreciate your concern,” he told the girl gently. “But I really don’t think the authorities can help.”

She bit down on her lip, clearly unhappy with this answer. “How will you know until you try?”

“Because they can’t do anything with him unless they can find him,” Duncan lied smoothly. No need to go into the real reasons when that one would suffice. “And Karver’s pretty much disappeared into thin air. At the moment all Adam and I have to give the police is a name and a description. It’s not a lot of information to go on, and there’s no guarantee that they’ll put any man power into it at all. You know how understaffed the city police are now.” The girl looked unhappier still, but she nodded grimly. Duncan leaned closer. “It really is for the best that I find him,” he said quietly. “Can you tell me anything…anything at all…that might help?”

She shook her head. “I wish I could,” she said. “But I can’t. There’s no way I can prove the guy was even responsible for the break-in. And as for the day he came by and threatened us…well, Sarah and I were too relieved when he was gone to think about following him or anything. I don’t think I can tell you anything you and Adam don’t already know.”

“That’s okay. I’m glad you’ve told me what you have.” Duncan took a business card out of his pocket and laid it on the desk. “Will you call me if he comes by again? Or if you remember anything more?” He started to slide the card toward her, then hesitated, his finger lingering on the paper. “You might want to take that home with you and put it with Old Dog’s adoption papers. Just in case.”

The girl smiled. “I’m going to have to give you guys your own file,” she said, then started fidgeting in her chair. “Look, Mr. MacLeod…”

“Duncan.”

“Duncan.” She gave him a worried look. “If you find this guy… you’re not going to try to take the law into your own hands, are you? I mean, I can just imagine how tempting it would be to try to fix the problem yourself. But…”

*You have no idea.* Duncan was tempted to tell her that it was none of her business, that he would handle this in his own way. But the young lady didn’t deserve that. She wasn’t meddling. She was just honestly concerned, and acting as morally as a mortal could in these circumstances. It was quite touching, really. “I’m not going to promise you I won’t,” Duncan said after a moment’s thought. “But I will tell you that I won’t do anything to endanger Adam or myself unnecessarily. All I want to do is take care of him. You’re going to have to trust me on that.”

Something bright and happy suddenly sparked behind the girl’s clear eyes, wiping away her uncertainty. “You know, I do,” she said. “Trust you, I mean. I shouldn’t, maybe, but I do.” She settled back into her chair, shaking her head. “Lucky Adam. I guess the love-at-first-sight thing didn’t just happen to him with Old Dog, huh?”

Duncan frowned. “Excuse me?”

She chuckled softly. “Don’t be embarrassed. I know how much you guys hate to talk about the mushy stuff. But I have to say: I think Adam’s taste has improved. He picked a really great guy to fall for when he fell in love with you.” She picked up Duncan’s card and tucked it into her jacket. “I’ll keep this safe, and I’ll be sure to call you if anything else strange happens. But I hope that I won’t have to.”

Duncan felt rather like he’d been smacked in the head with a two by four. “I—yes, you do that,” he said, and saw the girl smile and nod, but only as if from a long, long way away. The entire room suddenly seemed to be filled with a strange gray fog. Duncan literally stumbled on his way to the door, catching himself only because his reflexes were too well trained to let him fall. If he’d had to depend on his mind, he would have ended up on the floor. He made it to the exit anyway, mumbled some sort of pleasantry by way of goodbye, and escaped.

The door actually did hit him on the ass on the way out. Fortunately, it didn’t smack him very hard.

***

The fog lasted for a good twenty minutes. Long enough for even an Immortal like Duncan MacLeod to get himself into trouble, if it hadn’t once again been for those expertly honed reflexes. They saw to it that Duncan didn’t walk in front of any moving vehicles and quietly steered his footsteps someplace safe. The next thing Duncan knew, he was taking off his coat at Joe’s, completely amazed that he’d gotten that far on autopilot. It was early afternoon. The place was empty, apart from Joe dusting bottles at the far end of the bar. When he saw Duncan, Joe blanched and hurried over, bar rag dangling from his hand. “My god, what happened to you?” he asked, panicked. “Is Methos...” 

“What? No. No, Joe. Methos is fine.” Joe looked relieved, but he still seemed puzzled by Duncan’s evident distraction. “Uh, Joe?”

“Yes, Mac?”

“Have I ever…I mean have we…I mean, have Methos and I ever given you the impression that we…” Duncan stopped, feeling a juvenile blush he hadn’t worn since at least 1708 creep over his cheeks. This was ridiculous. But he had to know. And if he couldn’t talk to Joe, who else could he ask? Duncan took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “Joe, has Methos ever said anything to you that made you think he...thought about me? I mean, thought about me as more than a friend?”

The most fascinating series of expressions flickered over Joe’s face. First, there was a grin. It was wide grin, large and exuberant, with mirth dancing clearly in the mortal’s wise grey eyes. But it was wiped away just as quickly as it came, replaced by the rather strangled look of a man who has unexpectedly swallowed a fly with his soup. Then the grin came back, about twice as wide as before, and finally Joe covered his face with his hands as his shoulders started to quiver. “Joe?” Duncan said, alarmed.

“I’m okay, Mac,” Joe said, waving one of his hands in what Duncan was sure was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. It would have worked better if Joe’s entire body hadn’t been shaking with what looked like some kind of epileptic fit. “Just…ah…just give me a minute, here.” Duncan frowned and eased down onto a bar stool, watching Joe closely. After what seemed like a long time, Joe finally lowered his hands, wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mac,” he said. “I swore that if the day ever came when you finally asked me that question, I wasn’t going to laugh. I really did. But—“ A merry chuckle escaped him. “It’s just too damn funny. Sorry, Mac. You’re just going to have to let me laugh this one out.”

Concern instantly turning to displeasure, Duncan growled out “It’s not *that* funny,” which, of course, only made Joe laugh that much harder. The bartender actually had to limp out from behind the bar so he could collapse into a chair. When the paroxysm seemed to have subsided …Joe was now slumped low in the chair, with only the occasional hiccup of laughter instead of great shaking gales …Duncan gave his head a tiny shake. “So I take it it was pretty obvious, then,” he said in a small voice.

“Oh, *yeah*,” Joe said with feeling. “Trust me on this one, Mac. No special Watcher training was required at all. A blind man could have seen it. Without the aid of Braille.”

“I—” Duncan raised a hand to his head, feeling a dull, pounding throb starting up behind his temples. “How long?”

“How long has he felt this way about you, you mean? Or how long have *I* known that he did?”

“Either. Both.”

“Well, I knew the first time I ever saw you two together. You know, that time on your barge in Paris, when he had to pretend to be so fascinated with your chess set just to keep himself from staring at you? But by then it was already a fait accompli.” Joe suddenly straightened in his chair, all traces of hilarity gone. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, that man has been in love with you from the first day you met. He may never have told you so—not in words, anyway. But it’s always been there, nonetheless.”

"Always been there…"

Duncan repeated the words dully. For a brief moment he was no longer in the bar—instead, he was in Methos’s long-abandoned Paris flat, standing still while the man on the floor took off his headphones and let his gaze sweep over Duncan, taking him in from head to toe. *Always been there.* Other memories quickly followed. The natural way they’d fallen into step together during their first walk along the Seine. The look in Methos’s eyes when he’d come to give Duncan his family sword. The anger with which he’d attacked Duncan in the dojo the day he’d tried to make Duncan see that Kristin really was a threat. *Not in words,* Duncan thought to himself. *No. He never did say it out loud…but he said it in so many other ways he might as well have shouted. And now he’s stayed in Seacouver for almost a full year, not even running when an insane Immortal started toying with him. Is it really just because of Old Dog that he hasn’t disappeared yet? Or could there be another reason?* “I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” Duncan said aloud. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

Joe eyed him appraisingly. “You really want the answer to that, Mac?”

Duncan sighed. He gave the Watcher a rueful little shrug. “I guess I already know,” he said. “Because I’m a self-absorbed idiot who can’t see past his own nose?”

Joe shook his head solemnly. “No. Well, yeah, sometimes. But for once that’s not what was going on here.” The Watcher looked Duncan directly in the eye, a slightly pitying expression on his bearded face. “You couldn’t let yourself realize that Methos was in love with you because then you’d have to admit that you were in love with him, too.”

“What? But that’s…Oh. *Oh.*”

It was like he’d been looking out at the world through slightly blurry spectacles and someone had suddenly taken them off his face, wiped them with a towel, and handed them back. Duncan could almost hear the “click” in his mind as all his mental gears suddenly un-gummed and once again began to tick together as they had always been meant to tick. Joe was watching him closely--the dancing light had returned to his eyes, although this time there wasn’t any hint of laughter on his lips. No, this time there was just a gentle smile, a heartfelt out-flashing of understanding and good comradeship. “Are there any other little things I can clear up for you today, Mac?”

The expression was contagious. Duncan smiled too, although he was sure that his smile made him look less like an understanding friend and more like a complete, blithering idiot. Never mind. People who had just discovered they were in love for the first time since they’d thought they would never be in love again were entitled to a few foolish expressions. He got up off the bar stool and started fumbling for his coat. “Um, thanks Joe, but I think you’ve done enough clearing up for one day. Uh…I’d better…I mean, I think I’ll just…”

“Go,” Joe said, making little shooing motions with his hands, then smirking and handing Duncan’s coat to him when Duncan failed to pick it up three times in a row. Duncan gave him a sheepish look of thanks and headed for the exit. “And Mac?” Joe called after him. “Tell Methos that I’ll understand if he's too busy to come by the bar for a while!” 

Duncan stopped in the doorway, trying to think of an answer for that. He failed utterly, and for the second time that day, a door bounced closed behind him closely enough to hit him squarely in the ass. This time, though, he didn’t mind. He just grinned to himself and flew all the way home.

***

When Duncan MacLeod pushed up the elevator grate in his loft that afternoon, he heard an excited bark coming from the kitchen. Methos was down on all fours on the kitchen floor, crouched with his face near the floor and his butt in the air. A few feet away Old Dog stood in a similar posture, tail madly wagging. The two had clearly been engaged in a game of canine keep-away on the floor. Methos held a rather gooey squeaky toy in one hand. “Think you’re smart, do you,” he growled. “I’ll have you know that I am bigger than you and older than you, Old Dog. No way am I going to let some flea-bitten furry nuisance of an animal get the better of…oof!” He went tumbling onto his back, out of sight behind the counter. Old Dog had pounced, but not for the squeaky. He’d gone straight for the old Immortal himself.

A mixture of laughter and very earnest swearing arose from behind the counter. Duncan stepped closer, and erupted into laughter himself. Old Dog was giving Methos’s face a good licking, fixating on the prominent nose. Duncan laughed so hard that he had to sag against the wall, nearly doubled over. He was so overcome that it took him a minute to realize most of the swearing had ceased being directed at Old Dog and was now meant exclusively for him. “Damn it, Highlander,” Methos shouted in between gasps. Old Dog was making him work for every breath. “Rescue me!”

“You dinna look like you need rescuing,” Duncan gasped out in turn, brogue slipping out in the extremity of his laugher. “Besides, you’re bigger than him and older than him, remember? There’s no way you’re going to let a flea bitten nuisance of an animal get the better of *you*.”

Methos didn’t answer, lost as he was under another deluge of doggy love. At last he managed to slip out from under the furry licking machine, sitting up weakly. “Pax,” he said, wrapping his arms around his aching sides. Old Dog settled down on the floor nearby, mouth open in what looked like a suspiciously human grin. “Damn it all,” Methos muttered, reaching up to feel his sticky, slimy nose. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it never fails to take me by surprise. Why does every love-struck beastie I run across happen to have this obsession with licking my nose?”

“Why, Methos!” Duncan said, with wounded pride. “What a scandalous lie. I have *never* licked your nose. Not once.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. The traffic outside ceased to pass, the refrigerator stopped its hum. Even Old Dog ceased to pant, pushing himself up into a sit all the better for watching this unusual scene. For his part, Methos’s head snapped around like a man watching a ping pong match. Duncan looked back at him levelly. Methos hesitated for a long moment, then swallowed hard and made a long arm, reaching up to snag a clean dishtowel off the counter. “No,” he said, and only Duncan could have heard the slight shakiness in his voice as he slowly started scrubbing his proboscis with the towel. “But you’ve painted it. And no doubt you’ve fantasized about licking it, too. I can see your kinky dreams now, Highlander. Me strapped down on a bed with my nose exposed, completely at your mercy…”

“The kitchen table would do.”

He had rarely, if ever, seen Methos look so startled. “It would?”

“Oh, yes.” Duncan prowled across the small space between them, body moving like a panther’s. He noticed the quick, almost nervous way Methos’s eyes left his face to take in the lines of his shoulders and hips, and had to hide a smirk. Then he plucked the dishtowel from Methos’s hand and ran it under the kitchen faucet, adding a little soap for good measure. “Although, now that I come to think about it, the bed *would* be more comfortable,” he said. “I think we’ll go there...*after* you wash that slobber off. I don’t fancy sharing bodily fluids with an Old Dog just yet. Well, not a furry one, anyway.”

Their eyes locked. Duncan silently handed down the towel, and Methos, apparently now rendered completely speechless, raised the cloth to his face and began once again to scrub at his nose. It seemed to Duncan that Methos did a much more thorough job then was strictly necessary. And when he was finally done he didn't so much finish as just halt--holding the cloth to his face, looking for all the world like a 12-year-old who’d just gotten a bloody nose during dodge ball and was counting on the cloth to shield him from a cruel and mocking world. Duncan knelt down and took the towel, murmuring "Let me," under his breath. Methos closed his eyes and let Duncan take it. A deep, shuddering breath escaped Methos’s chest as Duncan caressed his face with the cloth, carefully brushing each sculpted cheekbone with a gentleness that surprised even him. "Methos?" Duncan asked softly.

Methos kept his eyes closed, swaying softly against the cabinet. "Yes, Highlander?"

"Old Dog is very protective of you. Do you think I can kiss you without him taking offense?"

Methos’s eyes cracked open. They were, Duncan noted, rather extraordinary eyes, filled with flecks of luminescent gold and green and brown like some rare and precious gemstone. One so precious Duncan had never before seen its like… "I think we can risk it," Methos answered, voice low. "Old Dog has a surprisingly tactful way of fading into the background when he knows he's not wanted. And besides.” The ancient lips curved up into a faint smile. “He just stole your oven mitt off the counter and took it into the bathroom for some personal time. I think he'll be busy for a while."

"He WHAT?"

Duncan dropped the towel and half-turned on his knees, visions of a bathroom covered in shredded oven mitt already filling his head. Methos's hand on his arm stopped him. Stopped everything, in fact, including his breath and his heartbeat and all the parts of his brain capable of thinking about something as trivial as a damaged kitchen accessory. The expression on Methos's face was intense, so intense it filled Duncan's entire world. He had the sudden, half irrational thought that no one else had ever LOOKED at him quite so carefully before, weighing everything, judging both the moment and him. There was desire in that final judgment, yes, a passionate wanting that made the gentle touch of Methos's hand feel like a fire brand, even through the fabric of Duncan's shirt. But there also was a hesitance. A holding back. Suddenly, Duncan wanted nothing more in the world than to wipe that hesitance away. "Highlander?"

"Yes, Methos?"

"Why now?"

A dozen different answers started dancing through Duncan's mind. *Because you need me*, was the first, followed closely by *because Joe was right, I’ve wanted you from the first moment we met, only I was too terrified to let myself realize it* followed by a mad, almost hysterical *because I'm passionately in love with your dog.* He swallowed hard. "Because it's time," he said hoarsely, and allowed some of his own uncertainty to show in his eyes. "Isn't it?"

Methos was quiet for a very long time. Duncan held his breath, poised on a knife's edge as he waited for the verdict. Finally, though, Methos nodded. "Yes," he said. "I really think it is." 

And he pulled Duncan to him, lips meeting in their very first kiss.

***

It is amazing, how much can be communicated through a kiss. 

Duncan had first become aware of this particular magic when he was still a lad in the Highlands, when he’d learned that a stolen kiss behind the sheep pens could tell him more about a girl’s level of interest in his charms and immediate intentions for them than all the maidenly dissembling in the world. Over the centuries he’d refined it, until, with Tessa, a single touch of her lips could tell him instantly if she was tired or happy or sad. 

But with Methos, this unconscious communication took on a whole new level of complexity. It was as if, as their mouths slowly melted together and Methos’s hands reached up to ever-so gently cradle Duncan’s skull, all the usual games Methos used to shroud his meaning fell away. Duncan almost felt like he was reading Methos’s mind, and the things he found there blew him away. Things like “I love you.” Things like "you mean more to me than I will ever dare to say.” And, perhaps most surprisingly, an almost savage "god damn it, you had better not break my heart, Highlander" followed by the sad, unshakeable certainty that Duncan would. The certainty startled Duncan, enough that he broke the kiss to look incredulously into Methos’s face. Methos simply looked back at him, hair slightly mussed against the cabinets. But even though the ancient eyes seemed calm and bright, there was no way Duncan could ignore the emotions he’d just felt. “Methos,” he said shakily, tongue tripping over itself. “This isn’t—I want you to know that this isn’t just a one time thing. I…”

Methos didn’t answer. But he kissed him again, this time with a very definite feeling of *shut up, Highlander,* mixed in with the sadness and the love, and Duncan duly shut up. He let Methos pull them both up off the floor, leading them out of the kitchen and toward the bed. The only stop they made was a brief pause in front of the bathroom, where Methos reached out to firmly shut the door. (Old Dog gave a short yip of protest, but quickly settled down. Apparently his acquisition of the forbidden oven mitt more than made up for the loss of freedom.) And then they were at the foot of Duncan’s bed, where Methos just stood, looking into Duncan’s face, for such a long silent time that Duncan began to grow uncomfortable. “I mean it,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not.”

Methos’s only answer to this was a soft, painful sort of smile, as exquisitely beautiful as it was sad. But he reached up and started undoing Duncan’s shirt—slowly, unfastening each button with great deliberation and care. It seemed to Duncan that Methos was making each button’s unfastening a ceremony to be lingered over rather than a necessity to be rushed through or even foreplay to be indulged in, and Duncan was astonished by the way his body reacted: filling instantly with a need that took his breath away, a need he had never experienced in quite that way before. There was the familiar fire of sexual desire, of course, but there was also something else …something he didn’t quite have a name for yet, but which filled him with a soul-deep ache almost too painful to be born. He was already shaking by the time Methos reached his lowest button. When Methos dropped to his knees and gently rubbed his cheek over the denim covering Duncan’s cock Duncan couldn’t stand it anymore at all. He knelt as well, seeking Methos’s lips with his own, trying to fill his own kiss with meaning. *I mean it* he kissed, as hard as he knew how. *I really do. This is more than a one night stand, more than an experiment. I’m not going anywhere. Anywhere at all.*

This time Methos's kissed answer was as unmistakable as it was definite. Duncan felt it as clearly as his own pulse: a sad *Oh yes, you will* before Methos broke the kiss and pulled him to his feet. Completely consternated now, knowing his new-found beloved was hurting but unable to figure out just what he could do to stop the pain, Duncan settled for surrender instead. He let Methos finish taking off their clothes, let him place him in the middle of the bed, let him join him at his side. And as Methos began to rain tender kisses over Duncan’s chest, lingering over every inch of skin as if he was trying to memorize every nuance of Duncan’s scent and taste, suddenly Duncan got it. It was pointless telling Methos that he wasn’t going to leave him. After all, in Methos's experience, *everyone* betrayed him eventually--by succumbing to death, if not more petty human failures like infidelity or greed. There was literally no one in Methos’s life he could count on. Nobody who had ever stood the test of time.

The sadness in that overwhelmed Duncan. It also gave him a new, completely unexpected admiration for Methos’s bravery. The fact that the old Immortal would risk this, convinced as he was about the tragic way it would end, shook Duncan enough that he made no protest when Methos moved away. But when he slid down the bed and lowered his lips over Duncan’s erection, engulfing the Highlander in sweet succulent heat, a response finally broke in Duncan’s head even as his hips bucked helplessly, deeply fucking the ancient mouth. *Maybe I can’t promise you forever,* he thought, gasping as his hands closed in Methos’s soft dark hair. *But we still have now. And maybe, just maybe, I can make that be enough. Make now so god damn wonderful that it will be worth it in the end, whatever the end may be…*

He came with a hoarse cry, the fire of the orgasm surging through his every muscle and bone. And before he’d even caught his breath he’d caught a very surprised Methos around the waist and pulled him down onto the bed with him, touching and rubbing and pleasuring and doing his damned silly best to make now good enough to be worth every future pain. 

***

The dojo never really got dark at night. It was all the fault of that damn wall of windows, of course. They ensured that all the light from the streetlamps below and every building nearby filtered its way into Duncan MacLeod’s home, making true darkness almost impossible to achieve. Which normally was something Methos heartily approved of, given Duncan’s level of participation in the Game. The light made it that much harder for a Highland-head-obsessed Challenger to sneak up on Duncan in the middle of the night. But it also made it difficult for someone to sneak *out* without being seen. Which was what Methos was currently trying to do. 

There were a number of other things besides the light hindering his progress. These included two metal dog dishes, a leash, Methos’s trusty old duffle bag, and his hiking boots, which Methos was carrying in his hands in an attempt to keep his footsteps from waking Duncan. There was also Old Dog himself. The border collie had been sleeping soundly in the middle of the living room couch. Now he was staunchly refusing to budge from it, no matter how wildly Methos gestured. “All right,” Methos said after several minutes of this, speaking in the quietest whisper he could manage. “I know you don’t want to leave. I don’t want to either, not really. But we have to. It’s…complicated.” Old Dog yipped. “Shhh!” Methos hissed, almost dropping the dog dishes as he shot another anxious glance at the sleeping lump that was MacLeod. “Look, I can’t explain now, but we really do have to leave. If you move *this very second*, I’ll get you a special treat in the morning. Genuine people food—eggs, ice cream, whatever you want. Okay?”

“It won’t work,” said a subdued human voice from the blankets. “I tried that the other day when I was trying to get him to fetch his tennis ball. He knows you don’t really mean it. Or else he’s finally developed a taste for his Special Senior Formula kibble.”

The bedside table lamp switched on. Duncan MacLeod, tired and sleep-rumpled in a way that, quite maddeningly, made him look even more desirable than he did when he was perfectly awake and groomed, was sitting up in bed. Methos, as frozen as any escaped convict ever caught in the glare of a prison yard searchlight, gave some brief thought to coming up with a plausible excuse for his actions. But what excuse was there? Fully dressed at three A.M. with the exception of the hiking boots, arms full of luggage and dog care paraphenalia—Methos looked like he was doing exactly what he *was* doing, namely, abandoning his new lover in the middle of the night. There was nothing he could say to defend himself. Absolutely nothing at all.

Apparently Duncan thought so, too. He didn’t bother to ask Methos where he was going. He didn't even hurl any angry accusations Methos’s way. He just settled back into the pillows, arms crossed over his t-shirt clad chest, and when he spoke he just sounded resigned. “Were you going to leave a note this time?” 

Methos sagged. Duncan had come to know him much too well. “A phone message, probably,” he answered. “Left when I knew you’d be out. Then a postcard or a letter, a little later on.” His shoulders curled inward. “I figured you’d want to know when I found a new vet to do Old Dog’s surgery.” 

“You were planning on leaving town altogether? Not just going back to your place?” 

Methos nodded, shoulders hunching even more. Duncan was quiet for a long, long time. Then he made a frustrated sound and suddenly pushed back Methos’s side of the covers. “Oh, for god’s sake,” he said irritably. “You look ridiculous. We can’t talk about this properly with you acting like Amanda at the Louvre. Put all that stuff down and come back to bed.” 

And rather surprisingly, Methos did as he was asked, setting shoes and duffle and assorted dog care products in the very middle of the floor before he stripped off his sweatshirt and crawled back into Duncan’s bed. Slipping back between those smooth white sheets brought back an instant sense-memory of doing the same thing just a few hours before, when Duncan’s lips had been on his neck and his hands had been roaming over his skin. The memory was made even more vivid when Duncan threw an arm around his chest, spooning up to Methos’s back as naturally as if he hadn’t just caught Methos trying to sneak out. Methos closed his eyes, drinking in the feeling, knowing that it couldn’t possibly last but yearning for it with his whole soul anyway. “You really are the most terrible pain in the ass, you know,” Duncan said. The words were surprisingly gentle, as gentle as the hand that began to slowly stroke up and down Methos’s top arm. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were being Hunted?”

Methos’s entire body stiffened. _“How the hell did you find out about that?”_

Duncan’s strong hand just continued to stroke his arm, soothing him with his touch. “Joe,” he said simply, and Methos stifled a groan; yes, of course it would have been Joe. He really should have known. “Don’t blame him, though,” Duncan continued. “I think the man would genuinely give up his life before he gave up a secret of yours. It’s just that he didn’t know it was a secret, not from me. And honestly, I should have figured it out for myself. The way you were acting…the nightmares…the mysterious trips out…you were going to another dojo to train, weren’t you? That’s why you couldn’t take Old Dog along.”

“I did take him with me, the first time I went,” Methos said tiredly. Now that Duncan knew the truth, there was no point in hiding any of the details. “Old Dog was fine as long as I was working out on my own. But the second I tried sparring with a partner—god, you wouldn’t believe the fuss. Snarling, growling, nipping at the other man’s heels. It was amazing that no one got seriously hurt. I scolded Old Dog soundly, of course, but the moment my opponent and I engaged again, so did Old Dog.” Methos shrugged. “He’s very protective of me, as you observed.”

“Why didn’t you train here? Old Dog could have stayed in the loft, or you could have put him in my office. All you had to do was ask.”

“I know.” Methos looked down at the covers. “But I needed to do more than just get back into shape. I needed to train *hard*, prepare for my first real Challenge in centuries. You’re smart enough to know the difference. You would have known something was up.”

“Maybe,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “I don’t know, though. I seem to miss a lot, when it comes to you.” He rolled onto his back. After a moment, Methos twisted and went with him, settling down on his side under Duncan’s welcoming arm. “Would it have been so bad if I had figured it out?”

Methos shivered, and felt Duncan’s arm tighten around him. “Very bad indeed.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew that if you found out I was being Hunted, you were going to step in and Challenge him for me. And I couldn’t take the risk that you might lose.”

“Why not?” Duncan looked honestly confused. “Methos, you have to know I’m hardly a green boy. The chances of my losing are…small, to say the least.”

“Small, yes,” Methos agreed. “Infinitesimal, even. But still too great.” MacLeod frowned, clearly not understanding. Methos bent his head, groping for words. How could he even begin to explain? “You see--you are not the first Immortal I’ve ever loved.”

Duncan’s face softened wonderfully, looking both tender and ridiculously pleased, and Methos almost kicked himself. Of course, this was the first time he’d ever said the “l” word to Duncan out loud, although he was certain his body had communicated it loud and clear earlier that night. Methos really should have waited, saved it for a time when there weren’t such serious matters to discuss. But Duncan surprised him once again. He didn’t let the word distract him, or make the conversation veer into the “you really mean it? Just where is this relationship headed?” conversation Methos had half feared. He just picked up Methos’s hand and threaded their fingers together, giving Methos’s knuckles a quick kiss. “I honestly never thought I was,” he said quietly. “You were lying that time you said marrying an Immortal would be too much of a commitment, weren’t you?”

“Not technically.” Methos answered. “I can honestly say that I have never had an official wedding ceremony with any other of our kind. That doesn’t mean that certain…long term attachments…were never formed.” Duncan waited patiently, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze. Methos stared out at the distance, feeling a deep, decades-old pain twist coldly in his heart. He really didn’t want to tell this story, not to Duncan, not to anyone. But he had to make him understand. “Did you never wonder why I stopped practicing medicine, MacLeod?”

“I—“ The question clearly took Duncan by surprise. He thought for a moment, then gave a small shrug. “I guess I just assumed you got bored and wanted to do something else. Or maybe that you got disgusted with the way modern medicine was being practiced.”

“If only.” Methos detangled his hand from Duncan’s. This was going to be harder than he’d thought. He pushed himself up and turned to face his lover, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Maybe it will help if I tell you the date I stopped practicing with any heart. April 22nd, 1915. Ring any bells?”

It did. Duncan looked horrified. “World War One. The second battle of Ypres,” he said. “You were there?”

“I was there.”

“But…” Duncan frowned, clearly struggling to process this. Methos could sympathize. Sometimes he still had trouble believing he’d been there himself. “But you try so hard to avoid conflict, Methos. What on earth…”

“What on earth was I doing smack dab in the middle of the greatest war the modern world had ever known? It’s pretty simple, Mac. I was in love.”

“Ah.” Duncan nodded to himself and pulled a pillow behind his back, clearly settling in for a long talk. Methos didn’t know whether to be glad of this or not. “What was his name?”

“Jacob,” Methos answered, then cocked his head at Duncan curiously. “What made you so sure it was a he?”

“Call it a hunch. A lot of women served as nurses during that war, but it still would have been pretty unusual for you to follow one into battle. And you said you weren’t married. I suspect that if you loved anyone, mortal or Immortal, enough to put yourself into that kind of danger, you would have gotten married first if it had been at all possible. Despite your fear of ‘commitment’. Am I right?”

“You’re…not wrong.”

“Thought so.” Duncan nodded. “So where did you two meet?” 

Methos hesitated for a second, then gave in. If he was really going to do this, drag this much of his personal history out into the light, then he might as well start at the very beginning. “At Cambridge, in 1901,” he said heavily. “I was teaching in the medical school--don’t look so surprised, MacLeod. I’ve been a teacher of one kind or another more times than I can count. Jacob was one of my students. He was very young, not quite a hundred years old when we first met…but he’d come into the sciences for much the same reason I did. He was fascinated by the way western medicine was beginning to develop, entranced by the breakthroughs the human race was making. There was just one difference.” Methos’s mouth twisted sourly. “Jacob actually wanted to help people.”

Duncan frowned again, picking up on the sourness but not quite understanding its cause. “And you didn’t?”

Methos laughed bitterly. “Of course not. Mac, any desire I ever had to serve my fellow man got rooted out of me a long, long time ago. You never get thanked for it, and usually your efforts end up doing far more harm than good. But Jacob…Jacob was still young enough to want to save the world. He just didn’t understand the futility…” Methos closed his eyes for a moment, hurting, then resolutely opened them and returned to the story. “When Jacob graduated we moved back to his home in rural Scotland. He wanted to help the people there, give them the care they wouldn’t have gotten in any other way. He set up practice, and I retired in favor of doing veterinary research--I’d had enough of being a country doctor to last me several lifetimes by then. I did a lot of experiments, discovered quite a few animal diseases that had yet to be documented in anything more substantial than local folklore. We were happy.” He sighed. “Then that total bastard of an Archduke got assassinated, and the world changed.”

“Jacob enlisted?”

“He did. I couldn’t talk him out of it, no matter how hard I tried. In the end I faked a new medical license and joined up too, just to keep an eye on him.” Every muscle in Methos’s body suddenly tensed. “It didn’t work.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were both working in an aid station near the front. We...were overrun.” Methos was surprised by how calm he sounded. His voice was measured, controlled, as if he was simply reciting history, instead of recounting one of the worst traumas of his last hundred years of life. His hands, however, had started shaking violently. Well, you couldn’t have everything. He tucked them under the covers to keep them out of sight. “You remember your history, I'm sure. That battle marked the first time chlorine gas was ever used in warfare on a significant scale. Nobody knew what was happening. The Allied forces kept trying to get away from the gas as it settled into the trenches, and of course that just forced them into the path of the German troops. The fighting that followed was….particularly savage. I’d been avoiding war for a very long time; I hadn’t seen that kind of slaughter for centuries. It came as a shock…” He laughed hollowly. “When you learn more about me, Duncan, you will be surprised to know that any kind of cruelty can still surprise me. It startles *me*, that I can still be capable of horror. But I can. I didn’t even feel the bullet that ended up stopping my heart. All I knew was that one minute I was trying desperately to perform a tracheotomy on some poor gassed bastard and the next I couldn’t even lift my scalpel. I tried, but I just couldn’t make my hand obey my command…”

Damn it all. Now his entire body was shaking, hands and arms and shoulders, too. Duncan straightened up quickly, his face of mask of empathic pain. He laid a hand on Methos’s knee, offering silent support. “And Jacob?” he asked quietly.

“A soldier sawed off his head with a bayonet,” Methos said bluntly. “Not an Immortal soldier, either. It was just ordinary, run of the mill human brutality. I’d been shot at exactly the wrong moment; I couldn’t get to him, couldn’t stop it. I—I was the only other Immortal on the field, Mac. His Quickening came to me.” Methos’s voice finally cracked. “The energy hit me over and over. It just kept coming. I couldn’t do anything to escape it. I couldn’t even die to get away.” 

“Oh, Methos.” Duncan didn’t say anything more, and Methos was grateful. A deeper expression of sympathy would have undone him just then, taken away what little control he had. But the Highlander’s hand stayed on Methos’s knee, rubbing in small slow circles, and after a moment Methos’s shaking subsided. “What did you do when it was over?” 

“Picked myself up and went back to work,” Methos answered bitterly. Duncan’s eyes widened, and Methos made an irritable gesture. “Don’t look at me like that, MacLeod. I didn’t do it out of nobility. I was pretty much brain dead at that point. My hands just went on doing what they had been trained to, which wasn’t very much. Like I said, the gas had taken everyone by surprise. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do for the men who’d been exposed. But I went on anyway, getting killed from time to time and then getting right back up again, helping wherever I could. And went on helping, until I was finally discharged a small eternity later.” The bitterness deepened. “They even gave me a medal.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No. The first thing I did when I was discharged was to go back to Scotland and toss it into the nearest loch.” He clenched his hands. “No, that’s not quite true. The *first* thing I did was sell off Jacob’s land. Then I hiked into the hills and tossed my medals into a loch. And then I wandered. For months. I didn’t take any food or water, and I stayed as far away from other human beings as I could. I wanted to die, Mac. And I did.” He looked bleakly down at the blanket. “Repeatedly. I got to the point where I was just lying on the ground in the rain, not bothering to move, dying and reviving over and over again. I was that far gone. Dying repeatedly of exposure and thirst hurt much less than facing up to what I’d lost.” Methos swallowed, and then a faint smile curved his lips. “And then Annie found me.”

Duncan caught his change in mood. “One of your sixty-eight wives?” he asked.

“No.” Methos shook his head. “Annie was a dog. A beautiful border collie, herding dog through and through. The damn animal sat on my chest and started licking my face. I was so far gone that my first response was to try to kill her, but she didn’t hold it against me. Just moved out of reach of my hands—I was too weak to move very far—and kept licking, until I summoned enough strength to sit up. Then she pulled on my coat until I stood up, and then she pushed on my legs until I started walking, and then…” Methos gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I know how it sounds, Mac, but it’s true. It was a genuine Lassie-rescuing-Timmy-from-the-well kind of moment. Annie was a working dog, the pride of the sheep farm on which she lived. She was especially famous for tracking down stray lambs, and apparently she’d decided I was one of them. She never bit, never growled, but she kept at me, leading me back to her herd—which was where I collapsed. And where I was eventually found by Annie’s owner Margaret, who really wasn’t all that surprised. Men had been trickling back from the war for months, and as Margaret said, all of them were broken in one way or another. Finding me in my tattered uniform half out of my mind with Annie standing guard wasn’t really that much of a shock. Margaret took me in, fed me, kept me warm…and yes, eventually became wife number sixty-eight, although that didn’t happen right away. She’d lost her husband at the Battle of Liege, and we both needed some time to heal…” 

He trailed off. Duncan was looking at him very thoughtfully, and Methos wondered if he’d gone too far. It was generally considered bad form to talk about one’s ex-lovers with a new one, after all. And here he was, discussing not just his long lost Immortal love but one of his mortal wives as well. But Duncan just seemed quiet, not jealous at all, and when he spoke Methos realized he’d underestimated him. “I’m glad you had someone to help you heal,” Duncan said. “How long did you stay with her?”

“A little more than a decade,” Methos answered. “Margaret died of tuberculosis in 1929. But I stayed with her until then, helping her run the farm. Or maybe I should say I helped Annie, since she was convinced the whole place belonged to her.” He caught Duncan’s amused smile, and frowned. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Duncan answered, then proved the statement was a lie a second later by chuckling aloud. “I’m just having a hard time picturing you as a Scottish sheep farmer, that’s all.”

Ah. “It is an unlikely picture,” Methos agreed. “But it’s true. I delivered lambs in the snow and stayed up nights worrying about milk fever and everything. I even won second place in one of the local sheepdog trials, although that was really Annie’s doing. I stood at the post and shouted “Come by” and “Away to me” pretty much at random, and she did all the work. The real shepherds all knew I was full of it, of course. But they gave me the prize anyway, for Annie’s sake.” He smiled impishly. “If you ask me very nicely, Highlander, someday I’ll show you the walking stick they gave me. It’s a very fine piece of work. All hand carved, with a knob on the end…”

“I think you showed me that all ready,” Duncan responded with an answering twinkle. “Well, at least that explains why you’re so good with Old Dog. I guess Annie taught you everything you needed to know.” Methos nodded, a sudden melancholy dropping over him. Duncan saw it. “Is that why you adopted Old Dog in the first place? Because he reminded you of her?”

“The two of them could be twins,” Methos answered. “Old Dog’s a bit broader in the chest, maybe. But their markings are practically the same, right down to their spots. And the look in the eyes…well, once I saw that, I knew I couldn’t leave Old Dog in the shelter. It would have been like losing Annie all over again.” He sighed. “It’s happened to me a lot over the years, you know. I get adopted by a cat who is almost identical to the one I lived with two centuries before, or I buy a horse that could be the brother of one I rode back in Rome. Usually, it makes me happy. It gives me a chance to relive some pleasant memories, even wonder if there might be something to reincarnation after all. I’d like to think so. It would be nice to believe that not everything I love is doomed to be lost forever, after all. But this time…”

“This time, Old Dog reminded you of Annie,” Duncan finished for him. “Which is good, in a way. But it also reminds you of the state you were in when she found you. What you’d lost.” Methos nodded, and Duncan leaned toward him earnestly. “Oh, Methos. No wonder you’ve been having nightmares. Having Old Dog in your life must remind you of so much.”

“Old Dog isn’t the only one.”

Duncan frowned. Methos waited, for what seemed like several heartbeats, for Duncan to get it. Finally he did, and his eyes went wide. “You mean…I look like Jacob?”

Methos shook his head. “No. Not at all. You’d have to chop six inches off your height and dye your hair red to even come close. Not to mention start wearing spectacles and a really awful tweed suit.” Duncan relaxed a little. Methos looked away gloomily. “But you do have one major thing in common.”

“Which is?”

“Like Jacob, you believe that some things are worth dying for.” Methos’s gloom became an all-out depression. “And that means that I’m going to lose you in exactly the same way.”

Duncan’s mouth dropped open. After several, long, silent minutes, during which Methos could hear every tick of Duncan’s grand old grandfather clock, the Highlander started to speak. Methos forestalled him with one raised hand. “No,” he said. “Don’t try to argue with me. I’ve known this for a very, very long time—from that first walk we ever took together along the Seine. You’re a hero, Duncan MacLeod. You genuinely believe there’s a moral law greater than yourself, a law worth fighting for or even dying to defend. And that means that you will meet your end in one of two ways. Someday, you’ll either misjudge your opponent’s strength, or else you’ll decide that the cause is important enough to be worth the ultimate price. And then—“ Methos’s hands fisted helplessly in the bed clothes. “And then I will be left trying to decide if I can go on knowing that the other half of my soul, the person I waited 5,000 years for just to be born, has gone for good, or if I should just give up and follow you to the sword.” He shrugged painfully. “I still don’t know which one I’ll choose.”

Duncan was pale, as shocked as if Methos had suddenly drawn a dagger and shoved it into his belly. “You care that much?” he said. 

Methos nodded, tightly, once again wondering if he’d said too much. The knowledge of just how deeply he did care was surely something the Highlander didn’t need to know just yet. They’d only had sex once and managed to live together peacefully for a handful of weeks, after all. Methos wouldn’t have blamed Duncan if he ran, protesting that he wasn’t ready for that level of entanglement, that he only wanted a regular lay and free access to Old Dog. But once again, Duncan surprised him. “I think I already knew that,” he said quietly. “When we were making love before, I felt it, right along with your sadness that this was someday going to end. I thought at the time that it was just because you’ve lived so long and lost so many people, you couldn’t believe that I’d be the first one to stay. And I thought about how brave you were, taking a risk on me even when you were sure you were someday going to have to face my death…but that was all. It never occurred to me that you’d think you were facing *your* own death, as well.” He swallowed hard, and when he looked up at Methos his eyes were dark with pain. “Methos. I can’t change. I can’t stop fighting for the causes I believe are just. I can’t be other than I am.”

“I know.” Methos nodded again. “And that’s the great tragedy, isn’t it? Because I wouldn’t want you to be. *You* are the one I fell in love with, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You wouldn’t be yourself if you acted any other way.” He sighed. “So. All this long winded conversation has finally led us back to our original question: why didn’t I tell you I was being Hunted? I say again: because, if I had, you would have instantly gone to fight the bastard for me. And while I concede that there was every likelihood you would have won, there was always a chance you wouldn’t. This could have been the fight where your luck finally ran out for good. And I decided a long time ago that even if I couldn’t stop you losing your head to a hopeless cause, I *could* at least see to it that the cause would never be defending me.” He gave Duncan an intent, level stare. “You will not fight my battles, Highlander. If you try, I’ll just take Old Dog and disappear to the ends of the earth. Or at least as far as I can get without putting him through a lengthy quarantine.”

Duncan was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, he was quiet, so quiet it was hard to hear. “Protecting the people I love is also a part of who I am, Methos.”

Methos’s heart gave an irrational flutter. It wasn’t quite the same as his own declaration, but it was the first time Duncan had ever said ‘love’ in reference to him. *Sentimental old fool.* “I know,” he said, just as quietly. “I’m not asking you to change completely, Mac. You’re free to defend me from all the overfriendly co-eds and demanding IRS agents that you want. I’ll even let you get away with telling me to put on a coat before I go out in the cold. But not this.” Methos shook his head, his resolution strong. “When it comes to other Immortals, you will let me handle them in my own way. Or else I walk now. I mean it, Mac. This is an absolute deal-breaker.” 

“All right.”

“All right?” 

“Yes. All right.” 

Methos’s forehead furrowed. He hadn’t expected it to be this easy. “You mean that? No arguments?”

“No arguments. But one condition.” Duncan gave Methos his own version of the intent stare Methos had fixed him with earlier. “I will not try to fight your fights, Methos. If I do, you are free to take Old Dog and run as far as you wish. But here’s my condition. That is the *only* circumstance under which you are allowed to run away. No more buying plane tickets for Bora Bora or New Zealand or wherever else it is that you go when you disappear. Any other difficulties we have, you have to stay and try to work them out. Do we have a deal?” 

Ouch. It was, Methos conceded even as he winced, a rather brilliant counter move. One should never forget that Darius had taught this man to play chess. “Trying to make me give up on a survival strategy that’s served me well for 5,000 years, Highlander?”

“Not when it’s genuinely about survival,” Duncan answered. “There may very well be situations where the best way for you to keep your head is to run. If that happens, you just have to agree to take me with you when you do. Or at least let me know where you’re going and give me a chance to catch up with you later.” Duncan’s features hardened. “But when it’s not about survival—when it’s something that’s hurting you in other ways, especially if I’m the one that’s doing the hurting—then, you have to stay. You have to tell me about it. Give me a fair chance to work it out.” His eyes darkened. “I never want to wake up to find you sneaking out of here again.”

Methos looked down uncomfortably. “I didn’t think you’d agree to stay out of the fight.”

“Yeah. So you’d thought you’d just leave without bothering to find out if you were right,” Duncan said testily. “I hate to tell you this, Methos, but you’re not a mind reader. If you really want to know what I’m thinking, you have to ask. That’s all I want you do. Just stick around and ask.” He raised his eyebrows. “Well? What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

Methos hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sticking around—it’s not what I *do*, Mac. I’ve spent more years than you’ve been alive picking up and starting over when things get too hard to handle. I’ve had a lot of practice at it. It’s not going to be easy, learning a new habit now.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not going to be easy for me to refrain from stepping in and killing the first Immortal who looks at you in a funny way,” Duncan answered with a ghost of a smile. “But I’m willing to give it a try.”

“You are?”

“I am.” Duncan nodded soberly. “We’re both old dogs, Methos. Doesn’t mean we can’t learn new tricks. You can learn how to stay, and I’ll learn how to let someone I care about face danger on his own terms. Maybe, if we do, we’ll both end up being a lot less lonely.” His voice roughened, and Methos was surprised to see a hint of tears in the dark chocolate eyes. “After all, I may only have waited four hundred years for you instead of five thousand, but it was still more than enough. I’d hate it if our own stubbornness made us wait any longer. Okay?”

Methos nodded. He lay down on the bed and let Duncan pull him into his embrace.

***

“Mr. Pierson, you really can go home now.” The receptionist spoke with a hint of exasperation. “Your dog is just fine. He came through the surgery with flying colors. All he needs is a little more time to sleep off the anesthetic. I have both your home phone number and your cell-phone; I promise I’ll call you the moment he’s ready to go home. You really don’t have to stay.”

Duncan, who was sitting next to Methos in a bright orange waiting room chair, tried to hide his grin. The West Seacouver Veterinary Clinic was a very large building, and Duncan was pretty sure he’d seen most of it by now. When Methos had gotten tired of pacing through the cavernous waiting room, Duncan had tactfully suggested that they walk outside. The result was that they’d circled the building so many times Duncan was sure he could draw a plan of every door and window by memory. Now, though, they were just sitting down in the waiting room again, and Methos, who had been slumped forward with his head cradled in his hands, lifted his head enough to give the receptionist a tired smile. “Thanks,” he said. “But I’d rather stay. Old Dog will be frightened if I’m not there the moment he wakes up.”

The receptionist frowned. “But you’ve been here since 7:30 this morning!” Methos just shrugged. Duncan heard some of the tense muscles in his shoulders pop. The receptionist pursed her lips. “At least take a half hour break and go get some coffee,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re starting to scare our other patients.”

This, Duncan reflected, wasn’t really true. Most of the clinic’s other clients, both animal and human, had looked on Methos’s distress with understanding. Several dogs had licked his face, and one little girl had even offered to let Methos hold her pet rabbit while he waited for “the nice doctors to make his doggy all better.” To Duncan’s surprise, Methos had accepted these expressions of sympathy with grace; he’d petted the dogs and held the rabbit on his lap until her youthful owner was called for her appointment, whereupon he’d assured the girl that “Peter” was a very fine rabbit and would make a superb mother soon. (Apparently, Peter was expecting.) But in between times Methos’s nerves had been on clear display, making him alternate between dejected slumping and frantic placing, and Duncan could well understand why the clinic’s staff would want a break from both. He put his hand under Methos’s arm. “I’ll take him,” he said to the receptionist, who gave him a grateful look. “Come on, Adam. I saw a small coffee shop down the street. It’ll be my treat.”

Methos looked worriedly at the door the vet tech had taken Old Dog through so many hours before. “But…”

“It’ll be okay. Old Dog’s going to sleep for a few hours yet. We’ll be gone and back before he wakes up. And as…” Duncan took a quick look at the receptionist’s name tag… “Mary here said, she has your cell phone number. She’ll call if there’s any change, won’t you, Mary?” Mary nodded emphatically. Methos still looked hesitant, so Duncan leaned over, speaking in a low voice for Methos’s ears alone. “Come on, Old Man. You’re old enough to know that this kind of worrying won’t do anybody any good. Old Dog doesn’t need you now. But he *will* need you tonight…and if you fret yourself into exhaustion now you won’t be able to take as good a care of him then. Let’s go get some coffee, stretch, take a break. Okay?”

Methos still looked doubtful. But he let Duncan pull him up and lead him out onto the street. (Duncan could hear the receptionist’s heartfelt sigh of relief as they exited.) Once outside, Methos blinked at the bright sunshine, raising both hands to rub tiredly at his face. “I’m acting like an old fool, aren’t I,” he said.

“No. You’re acting like a man who is waiting for someone he loves to come out of a major surgery.” Methos looked at him quizzically. Duncan gave him a tender smile. “It’s okay, Methos. Everyone understands.” 

“I’m not sure *I* do,” Methos said ruefully. “*I* know I’m over reacting. Old Dog is going to be fine. It’s just…” He looked up at Duncan beseechingly. “He’s *old*, that’s all. Sometimes older dogs’ hearts stop for no reason under anesthetic. And we don’t know anything about his earlier medical history. He could have complications, maybe be allergic to one of the medications they use…”

“Shh. It’s okay. He’s through the surgery now. If anything like that was going to happen, we’d have known it by now.” Duncan gave his fretting partner a tender smile. “It really is going to be okay, Methos. Old Dog will be back chewing apart your favorite sweater in no time.”

“I don’t know,” Methos said with a sigh. “It’s going to take him a long time to recover. The incision will take a while to heal, and then he’s going to need lots of massage and physical therapy…” He trailed off, seeing Duncan’s fond, indulgent expression. He hunched his shoulders inward. “You’re laughing at me.” 

“No,” Duncan denied. “I’m enjoying you. There’s a difference.” He looked around him, then quickly pulled Methos into a nook between store fronts and kissed him on the lips. Being a gentleman by nature, he made sure his bulkier body shielded Methos completely from the street, just in case any homophobic bigots happened to be wandering by. Being completely in love with his partner, he saw to it that the kiss wasn’t gentlemanly at all, and it stretched on for several minutes. After a timeless time Methos broke away to speak, voice ghosting softly across Duncan’s ear. “Highlander. If you think your incredible personal charisma and raw sexual power is going to distract me from worrying about my dog…”

“I’d be right?” Methos smiled, amused, but he still looked distracted. Duncan laid his forehead tenderly against Methos’s. “No, I didn’t, not really,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t in this alone. I care about Old Dog too, you know. Anything you need…massage, a hand with his physical therapy, rug cleaning when his stomach gets upset…I’m there for you. All you have to do is ask.”

Methos arched an eyebrow. “What about massages for me?”

“Are you kidding?” Duncan smirked. “I’m more likely to beg *you* for that. Any chance to get my hands on your skin. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re kind of addictive that way.”

Methos didn’t answer right away. But he kissed Duncan again, tongue lingering, then moved away. “Right,” he said, straightening out his sweatshirt with a purposeful tug to the hem. “Consider me distracted. Let’s go get that coffee.”

“Your wish is my command.”

They got the coffee, drank it in the shop, and headed back to the vet’s clinic. As they crossed the parking lot, Duncan felt a sudden heaviness in the air. He sniffed tentatively, and turned to Methos for confirmation. “Do you smell…”

“Smoke,” Methos nodded. His hazel eyes went wide. “It’s coming from the clinic.” 

“How do you—“ 

But Duncan’s question died on his lips. Because Methos was already running, sprinting across the asphalt like a madman, making for the clinic’s front door. And Duncan knew why: he saw the smoke, black and choking, billowing from one of the clinic’s side windows. Oh, god. Old Dog. Duncan started running, too.

He skidded to a stop just inside the door, an Immortal Buzz which was not his lover’s ringing in his ears. Methos was already there, standing statue-still in the middle of the waiting room floor. There was a heavy haze of smoke collecting in the air, but it was easy to see what he was staring at. Mary the receptionist was sitting in her chair behind the desk, her arms bound to the chair’s arms with surgical tape. She had an ace bandage gagging her mouth and a thick plug of cotton gauze stuffed into each of her ears. Behind her stood a slim man with a ridiculous goatee, holding a lethal-looking sword casually to Mary’s throat. “Well, well,” the man said. “I didn’t think you’d be such a coward as to bring your *Teacher* along, child! Ah, well.” He made a mocking bow in Duncan’s direction. “Isn’t it a shame that the Game demands we only dance with one partner at a time? But never mind. As soon as I finish with your student here, I’ll be happy to give you a turn.”

Methos spoke with surprising calm. “How did you find me, Karver?”

For answer Karver reached into his pocket, producing a shiny business card with the clinic’s name and address. Duncan winced. Yes, Allie at the animal shelter *had* said that the only thing taken in the break-in had been some business cards. Christ. “Figured you were the kind of bleeding heart who wouldn’t be able to let a poor animal suffer with a bad leg for long,” Karver said cheerfully, tucking the card back into his pocket. “I’ve been keeping watch on this place for weeks. When I saw you and your Teacher head out for coffee, I decided it was time to make my move.” 

“You started the fire?” Methos asked. Karver nodded, grinning. Methos took a slow step forward, his hand sliding inside his coat. “That wasn’t particularly bright, my friend. I’m sure the fire department is already on its way. And it’s hard to fight a proper Challenge when you have half a dozen men with fire hoses crawling around the building.”

“Oh, I don’t expect this to take long.” Karver slid his sword casually along Mary’s neck. The receptionist squeaked behind her gag, but her skin remained unbroken. “And setting the fire was the only way I could think of to make sure you entered the building. I knew you’d run away the moment you felt my Presence, unless your precious animal was threatened. Besides.” Karver sneered. “Mary here was kind enough to show me your bill before I gagged her. I know where you live now, so even if you *do* run away you’ll have to face me there eventually. And my, my! What a pretty penny this surgery cost! Shame it’s all a waste. Your mutt probably would have made a full recovery--that lady vet did some pretty skillful stitching on his leg. I know. I asked her right before I slit his furry throat.”

It wasn’t rage. It was an entirely different emotion Duncan felt like a blow to his stomach, an ice cold stony grief. He took a threatening step forward. “You *bastard*,” he hissed, surprised to feel a sting of tears in his eyes. “You absolute bastard. You didn’t have to do that. If you wanted a fight, all you had to was ask *me*…”

“Mac.” It was a gentle word, gently spoken, but it was enough. Duncan stopped, his hands clenching into impotent fists. “My battle,” Methos said quietly. 

“But he…”

“My battle,” Methos repeated, with just a touch more emphasis, and after a long tense moment, Duncan nodded and stepped back. As much as his heart hurt at that moment, as terrified as he was by the thought of Methos taking on this sadist alone, he’d made a promise, one his honor demanded that he keep. He looked at his beloved through agonized eyes, and was surprised: Methos looked serious, very alert and intent, but not upset. “Let the girl go,” the old Immortal told Karver calmly. “Then we can finish this wherever you like.”

Karver grinned. He gave Mary’s chair a mighty shove, sending her rolling toward them with another terrified squeak, and then ducked through the door back into the examination rooms. Methos didn’t hesitate for a second. He caught Mary before she could topple, steadied her, said “Make sure the building’s evacuated. The rest of the vet staff must still be in here somewhere,” to Duncan, and then vaulted over the reception desk after Karver. Duncan pulled the cotton from Mary’s ears and the bandage from her mouth, then grabbed a letter opener from the desk which he used free her hands. He wanted, god how he wanted, to be the one who was going after Karver instead. But he’d given his word, and Methos was depending on him to get the civilians to safety. “How many other people are in the building?” he demanded urgently.

Mary looked almost too frightened to answer, but she swallowed hard and spoke. “J-just two,” she said. “Just Dr. Gi and Corinna, the lab tech who was keeping an eye on Mr. Pierson’s dog. Today is Doctor Keith's birthday. Everyone else went to lunch to celebrate.”

“Good. I’ll find the two who stayed. You get out of here. Get out of the building, go someplace safe.” Mary nodded with terrified eyes and bolted for the door. 

Duncan yanked open the door to the back rooms. The smoky haze was much thicker here, although Duncan still couldn’t see any actual flames. He quickly found the lab tech and Old Dog’s veterinarian in one of the examination rooms, sitting in a terrified huddle under the table. Karver had gagged them with more of the bandaging and bound their wrists together with a leather leash. Duncan swore loudly, already knowing that the letter opener he’d used to free Mary wouldn’t cut through the tough leather. Fortunately, the doctor jerked her head frantically at a drawer to the right, making loud “Mrrr-rrrr” sounds through her gag. Duncan opened it to find a variety of useful veterinary tools, including a truly fearsome pair of scissors he didn’t want to know the normal use of. It made short work of the leash. He told the women to stay low and cover their faces and led them out through the smoke, taking them out into the parking lot where Mary was still standing anxiously under a lamp post. “Is there anybody else still in there?” Duncan asked.

The veterinarian, a sensible looking woman in her late forties, shook her head. “No. We were it,” she said. “But—the smoke—if the fire department doesn’t get here quickly the animals will be trapped—“

Damn. With every fiber of his being, Duncan needed to go after Methos. He had to find out what was happening, even if he couldn’t interfere. But an image of Peter the Pregnant Rabbit’s youthful owner suddenly flashed before his eyes, and he knew that he could not. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go get them.”

“You can’t go back into a burning building!”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Duncan said with a smile. “And I've worked as a fire fighter in the past. I know what I'm doing. You stay here.” The vet looked like she was about to argue, but the technician chose that moment to burst into tears into noisy tears. Dr. Gi nodded distractedly, wrapping an arm around the sobbing technician. Duncan ran back inside.

***

Methos was in trouble.

His first exchange with Karver, swords clashing briefly in the hall linking the examination rooms, hadn’t gone well at all. Karver was strong, ruthless, and as quick as a snake. He’d already drawn blood twice, along Methos’s arm and left leg. The wounds were light, more annoying than threatening, but the fact that Karver had been able to get through his guard at all was disturbing. Methos suspected that the only reason he was still alive at all was that Karver wanted to draw the battle out. He’d followed Methos’s last defensive parry with a mocking laugh and then sprinted down the hallway, out of sight. Methos recognized the tactic; he was being toyed with. Karver expected him to follow, fight another few rounds, lose a little more blood and get a little more angry. Then Karver would run again. And the process would repeat until Methos was so enraged he made a stupid mistake or else was too worn out to defend himself at all. 

Unfortunately, recognizing the tactic didn’t make it any easier to counter. Methos didn’t have a choice *but* to follow the other Immortal. Karver had clearly done his homework. He obviously knew the building’s layout better than Methos did, and with the fire spreading so rapidly Methos didn’t have the time to pick out his own ground and wait for Karver to come to him. This had to be settled quickly, before the building became uninhabitable. He took a deep breath and charged after him.

They engaged again in one of the surgeries, fighting furiously and awkwardly over the surgical table. Methos managed to snatch a scalpel off a tray and throw it, lodging the blade in Karver’s sword arm—but Karver just yanked it out again before he overturned a bandage cart with a wild grin and vanished into the clinic’s back rooms. The smoke was thicker there, dark and choking. Methos caught a lungful and had to stop to cough, leaning against the doorjamb while he tried to figure out which way Karver had gone. The corridor was empty, but in the distance Methos heard the undeniable snick of metal door swinging closed. Karver had taken the stairway to the clinic’s second floor, a huge attic used for storing food and supplies. Methos closed his eyes briefly: finally, some luck. He didn’t know the warren of rooms on the first floor very well, never having been beyond the exam rooms during his visits with Old Dog. But he’d been in the attic more than once, helping the young vet assistants carry down the heavy bags of Old Dog’s specialty kibble. It was a huge space, and it only had one entrance: the stairway Karver just taken. One entrance. One exit. One way or another, only one of them would come back down. 

Methos took a deep breath and prepared to climb the stairs.

***

Flames were beginning to lick their little orange tongues along the ceiling of the waiting room as Duncan shouldered his way back into the clinic. The horrible scents of burning linoleum and drywall were everywhere, the smoke so thick it was hard for Duncan to see. He forced himself to be calm and made his way to the kennel, which wasn’t hard to find. A cacophony of terrified animal voices, barks and yips and whines, led the way. Fortunately, the smoke was thinner there, and there was a door to the outside, leading to a large fenced-in grassy area Duncan guessed was used to exercise ambulatory pets. Duncan propped the door open and quickly went to work opening cages. Most of the dogs quickly took the hint and bolted outside. A few just cowered in their pens, and those Duncan spoke too sharply, quickly convincing them that he was even scarier than the smoke. He wondered what to do about the smaller pets, but fortunately there was a stack of plastic pet carriers by the door. Duncan boxed up two cats, Peter Rabbit, a family of hamsters, and an extremely friendly young snake. He got bitten several times and almost lost two of the hamsters altogether, but at last the job was done. He stacked the carriers in his arms and started carrying them outside, thanking god that there had been no pet birds to get loose…

And stopped in his tracks.

Old Dog was lying in the corner, a bright stain of blood on his white throat. His shaved back leg was bare and pathetic looking with its row of neat black sutures. Suddenly Duncan couldn’t breath, chest choked in a way that had nothing to do with the thickening smoke. He looked from the body to the doorway, an agony of indecision in his heart, but there could only be one choice. He couldn’t leave Old Dog there to burn, even if the border collie was way beyond feeling any pain. He quickly took the pet carriers outside, placing them outside the fence to protect them from the milling dogs, then dashed back inside, scooping Old Dog up off the floor. The dog was limp and surprisingly heavy, body still warm. Duncan cradled him against his chest, letting the furry head nestle onto his shoulder as he carried him outside. 

And a warm, wet tongue gently brushed against his ear.

***

Methos lost his balance the second he reached the top of his stairs, feet sliding out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. There was something round and pebbly underfoot, something Methos was sure he knew…But he didn’t have much time to contemplate the mystery, because a second later a very sharp sword blade whistled past his ear. Methos rolled away with much more speed than grace, just barely managing to dive to safety behind a head-high stack of canned cat food. The moment he was there he slipped and fell on his ass yet again, sending a loud thud echoing through attic. Karver laughed mockingly from across the room. “Graceful, youngster,” he said. “You ought to star in a re-make of a Three Stooges movie. People would line up for miles to see pratfalls like that.”

Methos got back up, gingerly dusting himself off as he appraised the situation. The attic was cavernous indeed, spanning the entire upper level of the building. Pallets of dog foods and other pet supplies were arranged in a stack down the middle, effectively dividing the room in two. Methos was glad of that. For the moment, the pallets made an effective barrier, with Karver on the other side. If only it would stay that way... “This isn’t a movie, Karver.”

“And isn't that a shame, youngster? If it were, you’d be sure to win. Audiences would never stand for the murdering bastard who killed Lassie to end up taking little Timmy’s head.” Methos started creeping along the barrier, looking for a good opening. Once again, his boot heel slipped on a treacherous round pebble, and once again Methos “oofed” and went down. Karver heard it, and his sadistic chuckle rang through the room. “There you go again. You're hilarious, youngster. I’d have killed your dog weeks ago, if I’d known fighting you would be this much fun.”

All right. Enough was enough. Methos’s hand scrabbled along the floorboard, trying to figure out just what it was that was making the footing so treacherous. He gathered together a handful of the small round pebbles and brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply. The familiar fragrance made Methos’s heart crack; rage filled him, hot and poison-sweet. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, spitting the words like a weapon. “You didn’t have to kill him, Karver. He wasn’t part of this at all.”

“Oh, I think he was.” All hints of amusement had left the other Immortal’s tone. He actually sounded angry now, murderous. “Killing that mutt was the one and only thing I could do that would make you mad enough to actually face me. Coward.” Methos heard measured footsteps coming closer, stalking, and he pulled in tighter to the pallets of pet food, waiting. “You always find a way to run away, don’t you?” Karver jeered. “In fact, I think you’d run even now, if you could. But you can’t. There’s only one exit from this attic, and I’m between you and it. Only one of us is walking out of here alive.” 

Methos pushed himself up off the floor with a grunt, startling Karver, who was now exactly level with him on the other side of the barrier. “Yessss. Only one,” Methos hissed, and let fly with what was in his hand. He pelted Karver with the small objects, catching him a stinging blow in his right eye and on his sword arm right above the elbow. 

Karver, startled, howled and stepped back, clutching at his arm in surprise. “What the…”

“Specialty Senior Formula,” Methos said through gritted teeth. “Hard as rock and only half as appetizing. And he *ate it anyway*, you bastard. He ate it anyway. Just because I asked him to.” He climbed the stack of dog food bags, sword in hand, smiling a truly terrifying smile. “You’re going to pay for the fact that he won’t ever eat another mouthful, Karver. You really, really are.” And he launched himself off the stack, tumbling Karver to the ground in a messy tackle.

The battle was well and truly joined.

***

“OLD DOG?!?”

At the first touch of that warm, familiar tongue, Duncan yelped and almost dropped his burden. It took all the training and muscle control of a lifetime to manage to lay the border collie down with some semblance of gentleness, and when he did, Duncan almost lost himself to hysterics. Two wise, clear, brown eyes were looking back at him. He could see pain there, glinting sharply in the depths, but the eyes were open and *alive* just the same. Duncan dropped to his knees, feeling frantically for Old Dog’s heartbeat despite the evidence of his eyes. Yes. There it was, steady and surprisingly strong. A second later Duncan was lifting the furry head, questing fingers examining the bloody throat wound as gently as he could. When he found it, he gulped and swallowed, body shaking with the extremity of his relief. “Too shallow,” he said shakily. “Karver didn’t cut deep enough. He got some skin, but nothing else. Oh god oh god oh god…”

Old Dog made a quiet sound, more a grumble of annoyance than a whine of pain, and slowly, haltingly, got to his feet. Duncan was astonished to see that his bad leg, which had been bunched up by Old Dog’s hip for as long as Duncan had known him, was now hanging free, toes lightly touching the floor. The surgery had worked! Old Dog had the use of all four feet! Three or four ceiling tiles suddenly gave way, falling down in a shower of sparks and flames; Duncan abruptly remembered where they were and made a grab for the border collie, determined to carry him out to safety. It didn’t work. Old Dog growled at him and moved a few steps back, the bad leg uncertain but working nonetheless, toward the kennel’s inner door. “No!” Duncan shouted, panic rising. “No, Old Dog. Not that way…”

Obedience had never been one of the Old Dog’s firmer attributes. He went through the door, into the heart of the fire.

Duncan dove after him.

***

Methos had been in burning buildings many times, during the course of his five thousand years. Usually he escaped with his life, but sometimes he died, perishing painfully only to resurrect later amongst the ashy ruins. He wondered if this time was going to be one of them. In the last few minutes the fire had really caught hold on the second floor, transforming the storage attic into an inferno. Flames licked along all four of the walls, blocking off the stairway, and Methos knew it would only be a matter of time before the creaking floorboards underneath his feet were weakened enough to give way. The air had become an enemy, thick and hot and burning his lungs; the rapidly thickening smoke made it harder to see Karver with every second, but that didn’t matter very much. The two Immortals were still fighting, swords clashing frantically as they moved back and forth in the ancient dance, but Methos knew that wasn’t going to last for long. Soon, the smoke would thicken to the point where they couldn’t see each other at all, and then all the pretty sword tricks they’d both spent their lifetimes learning would have to be abandoned. It was going to be brute force, not elegance, that won this Challenge. Methos inhaled deeply, ignoring the burning of his lungs, and launched a particularly violent series of attacks, forcing the startled Karver to respond in kind. With a bit of luck, Methos could wear down some of the man’s impressive stamina before that moment arrived…

And then he heard a frantic barking coming from the stairwell.

It is said that a human mother can always recognize her own baby’s cry, even if that cry is drowned out by a chorus of other infants in a nursery school or crèche. Something similar happened to Methos then. He turned, incredulous, toward the stairwell, parrying Karver’s blade automatically as he peered through the smoke. There, at the top of the stairs, was a very familiar blur of black and white fur. Methos gaped. “Old Dog???”

Old Dog let out a loud yip of agreement. He started to growl as he danced back and forth, clearly seeking a path to Methos through the flames. A second later Duncan MacLeod appeared in the doorway. He lunged for the dog—and missed. Old Dog had bunched all four—four?—of his legs under him and made a great flying leap over the flames blocking the doorway, only to get stopped by a burning pile of dog beds that had toppled a few feet away. “Old Dog!” Duncan bellowed, voice carrying through the crackle of the fire. “Old Dog, no! SIT! STAY!”

*Right,* Methos thought almost hysterically. *Like THAT’s going to work. Highlander, you’ve never even been able to get him to fetch a tennis ball. You really expect him to obey you now?* Karver’s blade whistled by Methos’s shoulder, close enough that Methos could feel the wind it left in its wake. With a great effort Methos tore his attention away from the spectacle at the door and fought back, only to be caught by Karver’s boot kicking into his solar plexus. Methos stumbled, coughing frantically, unable to get enough air to refill his burning lungs. And went down on his knees, right at Karver’s feet.

“NOOOOO!”

Methos wasn’t sure which was more deafening: MacLeod’s anguished cry, Old Dog’s frantic barking, the roar of the fire, or the rushing of the blood in his own ears as Karver brought his sword around. Methos didn’t stop to consider any of them, but lunged at Karver’s feet, grabbing the man’s ankles and yanking them out from under him with a desperate tug. Methos honestly didn’t expect it to work. In fact, he would have given the move less than a ten percent chance of working. But Karver, who had been sneering and savoring his moment of victory, was caught off guard. He went down heavily, twisting onto his stomach, screaming as his face landed in a pile of burning hay. Methos didn’t hesitate but flung himself down on top of him, wrestling and biting and holding Karver’s body down into the flames with every ounce of strength he had. “Get Old Dog out of here!” he screamed at MacLeod.

Duncan didn’t want to go. Methos could see it, in his eyes, in every line of his form. At that moment the Highlander’s heart was as naked to Methos as it had ever been, and Methos was truly astonished by the strength of the emotion he saw there. But Duncan swallowed hard, took off his coat and dashed through the flames to Old Dog, skin blistering as he wrapped the material around the struggling animal. Old Dog yelped and whined piteously, doubtlessly giving the Highlander several new scratches and bites, but he couldn’t get free. Duncan hauled the wriggling animal back to the doorway, taking one last look at Methos. Then both man and dog both disappeared down the stairs. And Karver bucked Methos off his body with one skillful twist, hand scrabbling desperately in the flames for his sword.

Methos didn’t give him time to lift it from the floor. He growled deep in his throat and rushed at the other Immortal headlong, sending them both flying into one of the burning walls. Karver tried to get the burning hot metal of the sword in between himself and Methos, but there was no point. The time had come for brute strength to take over. And maybe Karver should have had the advantage there too, just as he had with the sword. But Methos wasn’t about to let Karver get him on his knees again; he’d be damned if he let Old Dog be orphaned and MacLeod left lover-less, not now that he’d seen what he had in his eyes. Methos abandoned his own sword and attacked Karver with his bare hands, finding the other Immortal’s neck and choking, choking, choking, until the wiry body finally went limp. Karver’s sword clattered uselessly to the groaning floor. Methos snatched it up and, too blinded by smoke to swing it with any accuracy, groped for the man’s neck and began to saw. It seemed to take a lifetime, but finally it was done. Karver’s head separated from his body with a sickening final squelch, and Methos stumbled to his feet and recovered his own sword, trying desperately to reach the stairs before the Quickening took him. 

He had just reached the first landing when the first bolt of lightning struck and his footing suddenly gave way.

***

It is a well known fact that dogs can quadruple their weight at will, making themselves far heavier than the laws of physics should normally allow. Old Dog was doing so now. He was also digging his claws into Duncan’s neck and snarling and barking straight into his ears, trying to make Duncan let him go so he could get back to Methos. Duncan understood his feelings. He didn’t want to leave either. But Old Dog’s thrashing had reopened the canine’s throat wound; Duncan could feel the blood in his fur, sticky and warm and wet, and it scared him half to death. Somehow, more terrified than he’d been for several decades at least, he wrestled the beast down the stairs and out the door.

The vet, technician, and receptionist had put the time he’d been inside to good use. The dogs he’d turned loose in the exercise yard were now neatly leashed and tethered to several trees at the far end of the parking lot, far out of reach of the building’s flames. The cages of Peter Rabbit and friends were neatly stacked in the back of one of the veterinary pick up trucks. The vet herself was kneeling over a German Shepherd who, like Old Dog, looked like he’d just come out of surgery. When she saw Duncan, though, her stethoscope dropped out of her hand. “Holy…”

“I know, I know,” Duncan said wretchedly. “That maniac tried to slit his throat. I don’t think it’s too deep, but…can you look at him? Please?”

“I wasn’t talking about the dog!” the vet exclaimed, shocked eyes dancing over Duncan’s sooty face and tattered, smoldering clothes. But some of the desperation in Duncan’s face must have reached her, because she quite staring at him and gave a business like nod. “Lay him down on the grass, please. Cindy. Mary. Help me hold him,” she said. The two women moved in, gently but firmly pushing Duncan aside. Old Dog gave a piteous whine and struggled furiously, but the ladies held him still while the vet felt his leg. “He’s ripped out most of his sutures,” she pronounced. “But he hasn’t re-ruptured the tendon; he must have a guardian angel looking out for him. Now to get a closer look at his throat.” She took off her lab coat, folded it into a pad and pressed it into the wound. After a few tense moments she pulled back and examined it, then gave Duncan a relieved smile. “Good. The bleeding’s already starting to slow. He’ll need some stitches, but he’s going to be all right.” Old Dog thrashed again. The vet frowned. “He’s acting like he wants to go back inside.”

“He does,” Duncan said hollowly. “His owner is still in there.” 

All three of the women stared at him in abject horror, just as Old Dog suddenly stopped fighting and went limp. For a moment he lay absolutely still, and then he threw back his head and howled—the most eerie, blood curdling sound Duncan had ever heard. It seemed to split the air, raising the hairs on the back of Duncan’s neck. A second later, all the windows in the building exploded outward. 

The three women all instinctively threw themselves over Old Dog, shielding their patient from the flying glass while they covered their own heads. Old Dog let out another chilling howl as a bolt of lightning snaked out of the building, hitting a nearby tree with an angry hiss. The vet watched it in astonishment. “What the…”

“The fire must have gotten into the electrical system, be making it arc,” Duncan lied, and got to his feet. “Watch Old Dog for me,” he said urgently. “I have to go back in there.”

An iron grip around his wrist stopped him. “No. You can’t,” Dr. Gi said tersely. “Look.” 

She nodded at the building. Duncan could see immediately what she meant. The energy of Quickening was feeding the flames. The fire was now burning with an unearthly speed and savagery, wicked orange light spilling from every broken window. “The roof’s going to cave in any moment,” Dr. Gi said quietly. “You can’t go back inside. I was a fool to even let you go after the animals. Firefighter or not, I won’t let you risk your life again.”

“You don’t understand!” 

Duncan yelled the words, his entire being frantic. But the doctor was clearly determined; Duncan knew nothing was going to convince her to let him go short of his knocking her unconscious. He froze, caught in a horrible moment of indecision, while Old Dog howled on. Several more bolts of lightning split the sky…

And then, just as suddenly as he’d started, Old Dog stopped howling. An eerie silence fell over the scene, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of fire engines approaching from the distance. The front door slowly swung open. And a black clad figure stumbled out of the flames.

All four of the humans stared as if turned to stone, watching as the figure—Methos? Yes, Methos. Even with his face covered in soot, that nose couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else—dropped to his knees on the pavement and just knelt there, panting. Then Old Dog gave an elated yip, as joyous a sound as ever came out of a canine throat, and tore across the parking lot to his human. He jumped and barked and frantically licked Methos's face, every inch of his body wriggling in canine ecstasy. Duncan saw Methos put his arms around him, and then Duncan was running too, doing some joyful barking and wriggling himself as he reached his partner. “You’re alive,” he babbled, and not without a hint of tears, when he reached him. “You’re alive. When Old Dog started howling, I thought…I was so sure…”

Methos looked up at him. In addition to the soot covering every inch of exposed skin, his hair was singed around the edges, and his eyes looked very blood shot. His shoulders were slumped and even the hand he was using to pet Old Dog hung limply from his wrist, as if he no longer had the strength to hold it up. Nonetheless, the smile he gave Duncan was pure Methos. “It’s not enough just to trust me to fight my own battles, Mac,” he said softly. “You also have to trust me to *win*.” And he promptly passed out, Old Dog following him to the ground. 

Duncan smiled and bent down, ready to pull both his new family members farther away from the flames.

**Epilog**

There is very little in this world quite as beautiful as a happy dog. And Old Dog was, at the moment, a very happy dog indeed. He was running—yes, running—across the park’s green lawn with all the speed and grace his breed was known for, in life-and-death pursuit of a runaway tennis ball. The fact that there was still a small hitch in his stride didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, and it didn’t bother Methos either: he knew the old canine was feeling no pain. It had taken more than six months of careful physical therapy to make this possible. Methos had spent hours carefully bending and straightening Old Dog’s newly repaired limb, helping him recover his flexibility and strength. Now, though, all it took was one glance at the border collie to know it had all been worth it.

And running behind him was an equally beautiful sight: a Highland Warrior with his long hair loosely streaming out behind him, chasing the dog over the green grass while his laughter carried to Methos on the breeze. Methos, sitting comfortably under a tree with a book in his lap, smirked. Old Dog still hadn’t learned to return a tennis ball, at least not when Duncan was the one who’d thrown it. But they’d worked out a kind of truce. Duncan would throw the ball. Old Dog would run to catch it, and then he’d let Duncan run to chase *him*, playing a spirited game of canine keep-away. This would continue until Old Dog was good and ready to let the ball go, at which point Duncan would pick it up, throw it, and the game would start again. Both Scots seemed perfectly happy with this arrangement, and Methos had never pointed out to the human one that he was still being manipulated by the canine as thoroughly as he had back when Old Dog refused to chase the ball at all. But that was all right. The only way two such obvious Alpha males could live together in harmony was if each was allowed to think he had the upper hand. Methos wasn’t about to disturb the peace by pointing out the obvious.

Especially not when he was so damn happy. Old Dog was doing well. Ian Karver’s death had been ruled an accident, thanks partly to Old Dog, who had scrupulously cleaned every drop of Karver’s blood from Methos’s hands long before the paramedics had arrived, and partly to the fortuitous caving in of the veterinary’s clinic metal roof, which more than adequately explained how Karver’s charred corpse had lost its head. (Truthfully, the police hadn’t looked into the matter too deeply. Who really cared how a loony who had tied up three women and set fire to the building they were in met his end? Especially when said loony’s fingerprints matched none on file, which meant there was no next of kin to raise a stink? Seacouver’s finest had nodded thoughtfully as Methos told his story about chasing Karver away from the receptionist and loosing him in the smoke, then closed the case with a minimum of fuss.) Methos had been forced to make up for all his Old Dog-related absences by teaching summer school, but somehow he’d drawn an unusually talented and motivated group of students, with the result that he was looking forward to his “day job” more than he had in years. Everything was going smoothly; everything was turning out all right. And Duncan MacLeod…

Duncan MacLeod. Methos allowed a soft, tender light to come into his eyes as he watched the man romping with his dog. It wasn’t that their relationship had been trouble free. Several times they’d had arguments that measured very high on the Richter scale, including one notable one at Joe’s that had caused the mortal bartender to drape his body over the scotch bottles protectively. Methos would be lying if he said he hadn’t occasionally thought about breaking his word, packing up Old Dog and heading for parts unknown. But…he’d stayed. And in return, Duncan had toned down his heroic tendencies. He’d even walked away from at least one unnecessary Challenge, for which Methos had rewarded him with an entire two weeks of the best sex of Duncan’s life. It was too early to tell yet, but it was looking like the Highlander was rethinking his priorities, deciding that some things might be more important to live for than to die for after all. The thought that Duncan might consider their relationship to be one of those things still seemed so impossible to Methos that he held his breath whenever Duncan went out alone. But…thus far, Duncan had always come back. 

And maybe, just maybe, he always would.

Methos consulted his inner Old Dog timer. The canine still had some stamina he needed to build. He should be getting tired any second now. And sure enough, Old Dog trotted over to Methos and flopped down in the grass, the ragged tennis ball held in his mouth like a trophy. Duncan was only a few paces behind him, face gleeful. “Did you see that?” he said excitedly as he joined them on the grass. “Old Dog actually jumped a few times to get the ball. Almost got as high as my chest, once.”

“I saw.”

“If he keeps up building strength like this, we can get a Frisbee for him soon. Maybe teach him some tricks…” Old Dog was panting and weak, but he made a Herculean effort and scooted toward Methos anyway, lying his head on Methos’s knee. Methos bent forward, burying his nose in the border collie’s soft warm fur as Old Dog closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep. Duncan watched, and his expression sobered. “Or maybe not,” he said sadly. “I keep forgetting how old he is. He’s so full of life, I keep thinking of him as a young dog, maybe three or four at the most. But he’s not going to live forever, is he?” 

“No.” Methos straightened up. When he did, his eyes held all the tenderness in the world, along with is pride in Duncan, his hopes for the future, and his appreciation for how they both had changed. “But we just might.”

And they kissed sweetly on the grass, the warm body of their dog sleeping between them.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Methos's prize walking staff "with the knob on the end" is, of course, my way of paying homage to the great Terry Pratchett's Discworld books. :) 
> 
> This story is gratefully dedicated to the doctors of Cinder Rock Veterinary Clinic, who kept my own "old dog" border collie happy and well for 12 wonderful years. Still miss you, handsome boy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Why You Should Never Let Your Dog Watch Highlander](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680100) by [genteelrebel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel)




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